ir Leslie bowed.

"I have no more to say," he declared. "Knowing naturally a good deal more
than you concerning the lady in question, I considered it my duty to say
what I have said."

"It is the sort of duty," Berenice murmured, "which the whole world seems
to accept always with a relish. One does not expect it so much from your
sex. Mrs. Mannering was born one of us, and she has had an unhappy life.
If she has been indiscreet she has her excuses. I choose to whitewash
her. Do you understand? I pay dearly enough for my social position, and I
certainly claim its privileges. I recognize Mrs. Mannering, and I require
my friends to do so."

Sir Leslie rose up.

"You are, if you will forgive my saying so," he remarked, drily, "more
generous than wise."

"That," she answered, "is my affair. Here comes Clara. Before you start,
find Mr. Mannering. He is in the hotel somewhere writing letters, and
tell him that when he has finished I wish to speak to him."

Sir Leslie only bowed. He felt himself opposed by a will as strong as his
own, and he was too seriously annoyed to trust himself to speech. Clara,
in her cool white linen dress, came strolling up.

"What have you been doing to Sir Leslie?" she asked, laughing. "He has
just gone into the hotel with a face like a thunder-cloud."

"I have been giving him a lesson in Christian charity," Berenice
answered. "He needs it."

Clara nodded. She understood.

"I think you are awfully kind," she said.

Berenice smiled.

"I hate all narrowness," she said, "and if there is a man on God's earth
who deserves to have people kind to him it is your uncle."

Sir Leslie returned, and he and Clara departed for the golf links.
Berenice was left alone in the little grey courtyard, fragrant with the
perfume of scented shrubs and blossoming plants, filled too, with the
warm sunlight, which seemed to find its way into every corner. She sat at
her little table, paler than a few moments ago, her teeth clenched, her
white fingers clasped together. Underneath her muslin blouse her heart
had suddenly commenced to beat fiercely--a sense of excitement, long
absent, was stealing through her veins. The bonds which a year's studied
self-repression had forged were snapped apart. She knew now what it
meant, the great inexpressible thing, the one eternal emotion which has
come throbbing down the world from the days when poets sung their first
song and painters flung truth on to canvas. She was a wom