Mr. Pengarth."

"And you--" she faltered, "are you--never in London? Sha'n't I see you
again any time?"

"If you care to, by all means," he answered. "Tell Mr. Pengarth to let
me have your address. Goodbye! Thank you for taking care of my treasures
so well."

She held his cold hand in hers and suddenly raised it to her lips. Then
she turned away and hurried indoors.

Wingrave stood still for a moment and gazed at his hand through the
darkness as though the ghosts of dead things had flitted out from the
dark laurel shrubs. Then he laughed quietly to himself.

SPREADING THE NETS

"By the bye," the Marchioness asked him, "have you a Christian name?"

"Sorry," Wingrave answered, "if I ever had, I've forgotten it."

"Then I must call you Wingrave," she remarked. "I hate calling anyone I
know decently well Mr. anything."

"Charmed," Wingrave answered; "it isn't a bad name."

"It isn't," she admitted. "By the bye," she continued, looking at him
critically, "you are rather a surprising person, aren't you?"

"Glad you've found it out," Wingrave answered. "I always thought so."

"One associates all sorts of terrible things with
millionaires--especially African and American ones," she remarked. "Now
you could pass anywhere for the ordinary sort of decent person."

Wingrave nodded.

"I was told the other day," he remarked reflectively, "that if I would
only cultivate two things, I might almost pass as a member of the
English aristocracy."

"What were they?" she asked rashly.

"Ignorance and impertinence," he answered.

The Marchioness was silent for a moment. There was a little more color
than usual in her beautiful cheeks and a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"You can go home, Mr. Wingrave," she said.

He rose to his feet imperturbably. The Marchioness stretched out a long
white hand and gently forced him back again.

"You mustn't talk like that to me," she said quietly. "I am sensitive."

He bowed.

"A privilege, I believe, of your order," he remarked.

"Of course, if you want to quarrel--" she began.

"I don't," he assured her.

"Then be sensible! I want to talk to you."

"Sensible, alone with you!" he murmured. "I should establish a new
record."

"You certainly aren't in the least like a millionaire," she declared,
smiling at him, "you are more like a--"

"Please go on," he begged.

"I daren't," she answered, shaking her head.

"Then you aren't in the least like a marchioness," he d