had
not the courage. She could hear the little satiric chuckle Madame
Beattie would have ready for her. And yet, she knew, it had to be done.
But first she sent for Weedon Moore. The interview had but just been
published, and Weedon, coming at dusk, was admitted by Sophy to the
dining-room, where Madame Beattie seldom went. Esther received him with
a cool dignity. She was pale. Grandmother would no doubt have said she
made herself pale in the interest of pathos; but Esther was truly
suffering. Moore, fussy, flattered, ill at ease, stood before her,
holding his hat. She did not ask him to sit down. There was an unspoken
tradition in Addington, observed by everybody but Miss Amabel, that
Moore was not, save in cases of unavoidable delay, to be asked to sit.
He passed his life, socially, in an upright posture. But Esther began at
once, fixing her mournful eyes on his.

"Mr. Moore, I am distressed about the interview in your paper."

Moore, standing, could not squeeze inspiration out of his knees, and
missed it sorely.

"Mrs. Blake," said he, "I wouldn't have distressed you for the world."

"I can't speak to my aunt about it," said Esther. "I can't trust myself.
I mustn't wound her as I should be forced to do. So I have sent for you.
Mr. Moore, has she given you other material?"

"Not a word," said Weedon earnestly. "If you could prevail upon her--"
There he stopped, remembering Esther was on the other side.

"I shall have to be very frank with you," said Esther. "But you will
remember, won't you, that it is in confidence?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Moore. He had never fully risen above former
conditions of servitude when he ran errands and shovelled paths for
Addington gentry. "You can rely on me."

"My aunt," said Esther delicately, with an air of regret and several
other picturesque emotions mingled carefully, "my aunt has one delusion.
It is connected with this necklace, which she certainly did possess at
one time. She imagines things about it, queer things, where it went and
where it is now. But you mustn't let her tell you about it, and if she
insists you mustn't allow it to get into print. It would be taking
advantage, Mr. Moore. Truly it would." And as a magnificent concession
she drew forward a chair, and Weedon, without waiting to see her placed,
sank into it and put his hands on his knees. "You must promise me,"
Esther half implored, half insisted. "It isn't I alone. It's everybody
that knows her. We can't, i