u'd come out and be
proved not guilty--"

"But, Lydia," he said gravely, "I was guilty. And besides being guilty
of things the courts condemned me for, I was guilty of things I had to
condemn myself for afterward. I wasn't a criminal merely. I was a waster
and a fool."

"Yes," said Lydia, looking at him boldly, "and if you were guilty who
made you so? Who pushed you on?"

She had never entirely abandoned her theory of Reardon. He and Esther,
in her suspicion, stood side by side. Looking at him, she rejoiced in
what she thought his confirmation. The red had run into his face and he
looked at her with brightened eyes.

"You don't know anything about it," he said harshly. "I did what I did.
And I got my medicine. And if there's a decent impulse left in me
to-day, it was because I got it."

Lydia walked away through the soft dirt and felt as if she were dancing.
He had looked guilty when she had asked him who pushed him on. He and
she both knew it was Esther, and a little more likelihood of Madame
Beattie's blackguarding Esther in print must rouse him to command the
situation.

Jeffrey finished his row, and then hurried into the house. It was the
late afternoon, and he went to his room and dressed, in time for supper.
Lydia, glancing at him as he left the table, thought exultantly: "I've
stirred him up, at least. Now what is he going to do?"

Jeffrey went strolling down the drive, and quickened his steps when the
shrubbery had him well hidden from the windows. Something assured him it
was likely Weedon Moore lived still in the little sharp-gabled house on
a side street where he had years ago. His mother had been with him then,
and Jeff remembered Miss Amabel had scrupulously asked for her when
Moore came to call. The little house was unchanged, brightly painted,
gay in diamond trellis-work and picked out with scarlet tubs of
hydrangea in the yard. A car stood at the gate, and Weedon, buttoning
his coat, was stepping in. The car ran past, and Jeff saw that the man
beside Moore was the interpreter of that night at the old circus-ground.

"So," he thought, "more ginger for the labouring man."

He turned about and walking thoughtfully, balked of his design,
reflected with distaste that grew into indignation on Moore's incredible
leadership. It seemed monstrous. Here was ignorance fallen into the
hands of the demagogue. It was an outrage on the decencies. And then
Madame Beattie waved to him from Denny's hack, and he