nd won't stand; so please leave off at once."

To Christopher remorse for wrong done would always be an agony; he had
yet to learn that to some temperaments, whereof Elisabeth's was one, it
partook of the nature of a luxury--the sort of luxury which tempts one
to pay half a guinea to be allowed to swell up one's eyes and redden
one's nose over imaginary woes in a London theatre.

"Did you mind very much when I was so cross?" Elisabeth asked
thoughtfully.

Christopher was torn between a loyal wish to do homage to his idol and a
laudable desire to save that idol pain. "Of course I minded pretty
considerably; but why bother about that now?"

"Because it interests me immensely. I often think that your only fault
is that you don't mind things enough; and so, naturally, I want to find
out how great your minding capacity is."

"I see. Your powers of scientific research are indeed remarkable; but
did it never strike you that even vivisection might be carried too
far--too far for the comfort of the vivisected, I mean; not for the
enjoyment of the vivisector?"

"It is awfully good for people to feel things," persisted Elisabeth.

"Is it? Well, I suppose it is good--in fact, necessary--for some poor
beggars to have their arms or legs cut off; but you can't expect me to
be consumed with envy of the same?"

"Please tell me how much you minded," Elisabeth coaxed.

"I can't tell you; and I wouldn't if I could. If I were a rabbit that
had been cut into living pieces to satisfy the scientific yearnings of a
learned professor, do you think I would leave behind me--for my
executors to publish and make large fortunes thereby--confidential
letters and private diaries accurately describing all the tortures I had
endured, for the recreation of the reading public in general and the
said professor in particular? Not I."

"I should. I should leave a full, true, and particular account of all
that I had suffered, and exactly how much it hurt. It would interest the
professor most tremendously."

Christopher shook his head. "Oh, dear! no; it wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I should have knocked his brains out long before that for
having dared to hurt you at all."

CHAPTER XI

MISS FARRINGDON'S WILL

Time speeds on his relentless track,
And, though we beg on bended knees,
No prophet's hand for us puts back
The shadow ten degrees.

During the following winter Miss Farringdon gave unmistakable signs o