xactly what happened. It was something like this." He passed his
hand over his face, then turned to her with a faint, wry smile so
irresistibly reminiscent of Lady Bassett that Muriel gasped with a
sudden hysterical desire to laugh.

He silenced her by beginning to speak in soft, purring accents. "You
know, darling Muriel, I have never looked upon Nicholas Ratcliffe as
a marrying man. He is such a gay butterfly." (This with an indulgent
shake of the head.) "Indeed, I have heard dear Mrs. Gybbon-Smythe
describe him as a shocking little flirt. And they say he is fond of
his glass too, but let us hope this is an exaggeration. I know for a
fact that he has a very violent temper, and this may have given
rise to the rumour. I assure you, dearest, he is quite formidable,
notwithstanding his size. But there, if I tell you any more you will
think I am prejudiced against him, whereas we are really the greatest
friends--the greatest possible friends. I only thought it kind to warn
you not to expect too much. It is a mistake so many young girls make,
and I want you to be as happy as you can, poor child."

Muriel was laughing helplessly when he stopped. The mimicry of voice
and action was so perfect, so free from exaggeration, so sublimely
spontaneous.

Nick did not laugh with her. Behind his mask of banter he was
watching, watching closely. He had clad himself in jester's garb to
feel for the truth. Perhaps she realised something of this as
she recovered herself, for again that glance, half-questioning,
half-frightened, flashed up at him as she made reply.

"No, Nick. She never said that, indeed. I wouldn't have cared if she
had. It was only--only--"

"I know," he broke in abruptly. "If it wasn't that, there is only one
thing left that it could have been. I don't want you to tell me. It's
as plain as daylight. Let me tell you instead. It's all for the sake
of your poor little personal pride. I know--yes, I know. They've been
throwing mud at you, and it's stuck. You'd sooner die than marry me,
wouldn't you? But what will you do if I refuse to set you free?"

She turned suddenly crimson. "You--you wouldn't, Nick! You couldn't!
You haven't--the right."

"Haven't I?" said Nick, with an odd smile. "I thought I had."

He looked down at her, and a queer little flame leaped up like an evil
spirit in his eyes, flickered an instant, and was gone. "I thought I
had," he said again, in a different tone. "But we won't quarrel about
tha