uch lightness at arm's length, and at being, in spite of
himself, somehow compelled to continue to assume a jocular courtesy.

"No, you are not," he answered.

"Not?" repeated Betty, with an incredulous lifting of her brows.

"You are charming and clever, but I rather suspect you of being a vixen.
At all events you are a spirited young woman and quick-witted enough to
understand the attraction you must have for the sordid herd."

And then he became aware--if not of an opening in her armour--at least
of a joint in it. For he saw, near her ear, a deepening warmth. That was
it. She was quick-witted, and she hid somewhere a hot pride.

"I confess, however," he proceeded cheerfully, "that notwithstanding my
own experience of the habits of the sordid herd, I saw one card I was
surprised to find, though really"--shrugging his shoulders--"I ought to
have been less surprised to find it than to find any other. But it was
bold. I suppose the fellow is desperate."

"You are speaking of----?" suggested Betty.

"Of Mount Dunstan. Hang it all, it WAS bold!" As if in half-amused
disgust.

As she had walked through the garden paths, Betty had at intervals bent
and gathered a flower, until she held in one hand a loose, fair sheaf.
At this moment she stooped to break off a spire of pale blue campanula.
And she was--as with a shock--struck with a consciousness that she
bent because she must--because to do so was a refuge--a concealment
of something she must hide. It had come upon her without a second's
warning. Sir Nigel was right. She was a vixen--a virago. She was in such
a rage that her heart sprang up and down and her cheek and eyes were on
fire. Her long-trained control of herself was gone. And her shock was a
lightning-swift awakening to the fact that she felt all this--she
must hide her face--because it was this one man--just this one and no
other--who was being dragged into this thing with insult.

It was an awakening, and she broke off, rather slowly,
one--two--three--even four campanula stems before she stood upright
again.

As for Nigel Anstruthers--he went on talking in his low-pitched,
disgusted voice.

"Surely he might count himself out of the running. There will be a good
deal of running, my dear Betty. You fair Americans have learned that by
this time. But that a man who has not even a decent name to offer--who
is blackballed by his county--should coolly present himself as a
pretendant is an insolence he should