oigne, a flirtatious intimate of Aunt Jessica's house.
To this irresponsible young woman I had openly avowed that I was the
guardian of a beautiful Mohammedan whose religious instinct compelled
her to destroy little dogs. I shall hear of this from my Aunt Jessica.

I walked stonily away with Carlotta.

"You are cross with me," she whimpered.

"Yes, I am. You might have killed the poor little beast. It was very
wicked and cruel of you."

Carlotta burst out crying in the midst of the promenade.

The tears did not romantically come into her eyes as they had done an
hour before; but she wept copiously, after the unrestrained manner of
children, and used her pocket-handkerchief. From their seats women put
up their lorgnons to look at her, passers-by turned round and stared.
The whole of the gaily dressed throng seemed to be one amused gaze. In'
a moment or two I became conscious that reprehensory glances were being
directed towards myself, calling me, as plain as eyes could call, an
ill-conditioned brute, for making the poor young creature, who was at
my mercy, thus break down in public. It was a charming situation for an
even-tempered philosopher. We walked stolidly on, I glaring in front
of me and Carlotta weeping. The malice of things arranged that ne.
neighbouring chair should be vacant, and that the path should be
unusually crowded. I had the satisfaction of hearing a young fellow say
to a girl:

"He? That's Ordeyne--came into the baronetcy--mad as a dingo dog."

I was giving myself a fine advertisement.

"For heaven's sake stop crying," I said. Then a memory of far-off
childhood flashed its inspiration upon me. "If you don't," I added,
grimly, "I'll take you out and give you to a policeman."

The effect was magical. She turned on me a scared look, gasped, pulled
down her veil, which she had raised so as to dab her eyes with her
pocket-handkerchief, and incontinently checked the fountain of her
tears.

"A policeman?"

"Yes," said I, "a great, big, ugly blue policeman, who shuts up people
who misbehave themselves in prison, and takes off their clothes, and
shaves their heads, and feeds them on bread and water."

"I won't cry any more," she said, swallowing a sob. "Is it also wicked
to cry?"

"Any of these ladies here would sooner be burned alive with dyspepsia or
cut in two with tight-lacing," I replied severely. "Let us sit down."

We stepped over the low iron rail, and passing through the first two
ro