aid. "I have understood from
Mr. Mills that you have been to the West Indies, that you have some
interests there."

I was astounded. "Interests! I certainly have been there," I said, "but
. . ."

She caught me up. "Then why not go there again? I am speaking to you
frankly because . . ."

"But, Madame, I am engaged in this affair with Dona Rita, even if I had
any interests elsewhere. I won't tell you about the importance of my
work. I didn't suspect it but you brought the news of it to me, and so I
needn't point it out to you."

And now we were frankly arguing with each other.

"But where will it lead you in the end? You have all your life before
you, all your plans, prospects, perhaps dreams, at any rate your own
tastes and all your life-time before you. And would you sacrifice all
this to--the Pretender? A mere figure for the front page of illustrated
papers."'

"I never think of him," I said curtly, "but I suppose Dona Rita's
feelings, instincts, call it what you like--or only her chivalrous
fidelity to her mistakes--"

"Dona Rita's presence here in this town, her withdrawal from the possible
complications of her life in Paris has produced an excellent effect on my
son. It simplifies infinite difficulties, I mean moral as well as
material. It's extremely to the advantage of her dignity, of her future,
and of her peace of mind. But I am thinking, of course, mainly of my
son. He is most exacting."

I felt extremely sick at heart. "And so I am to drop everything and
vanish," I said, rising from my chair again. And this time Mrs. Blunt
got up, too, with a lofty and inflexible manner but she didn't dismiss me
yet.

"Yes," she said distinctly. "All this, my dear Monsieur George, is such
an accident. What have you got to do here? You look to me like somebody
who would find adventures wherever he went as interesting and perhaps
less dangerous than this one."

She slurred over the word dangerous but I picked it up.

"What do you know of its dangers, Madame, may I ask?" But she did not
condescend to hear.

"And then you, too, have your chivalrous feelings," she went on,
unswerving, distinct, and tranquil. "You are not absurd. But my son is.
He would shut her up in a convent for a time if he could."

"He isn't the only one," I muttered.

"Indeed!" she was startled, then lower, "Yes. That woman must be the
centre of all sorts of passions," she mused audibly. "But what have you
got to d