the same level tone. "But Mr. Pope will bear me out. If he
doesn't, I shall still allow no false delicacy to stand between me and
my duty."

"Miss Gabriel means, sir," explained Mr. Pope, "that the articles in
question----"

"What articles, man?" asked the Lord Proprietor, as Mr. Pope, in his
turn, hesitated.

"Trousers," said Miss Gabriel, setting her face. "No, Charlotte"--she
turned upon Mrs. Pope--"this is no time for mincing language. They were
on a scarecrow, sir, in the very middle of the garrison garden, along
with my waistcoat----"

"Your waistcoat, ma'am!"

"That is to say, with my antimacassar, which I had converted into a
waistcoat and presented, in the innocence of my heart, to Treacher; the
clothing of these men being nothing short of a scandal. But for
scandal, sir, their clothes won't compare with their doings. Not to
mention----"

"My dear lady, I implore you, let us take one thing at a time! You wish
to make some statement about a scarecrow--in the garrison
garden--adorned (am I right?) with a waistcoat you were once kind
enough to present to Sergeant Treacher, and (I gather) with a pair of
trousers about which you are less explicit." The Lord Proprietor
paused. His eyes grew round with sudden, terrible suspicion. "You don't
mean to tell me--" he asked slowly.

Miss Gabriel nodded, and wagged an accusing forefinger at Archelaus.

"That's just what I _do_ mean. And if you want a picture of guilt, look
at that man!"

The Lord Proprietor turned and stared at him, gasping.

"My trousers? _Mine?_" But here speech failed him, and he stood opening
and shutting his mouth like a newly-landed fish.

Archelaus flung a wild glance about him, vainly seeking escape.

"You're looking at it in the wrong light, all of you," he mumbled,
feebly.

"And on the Sabbath, too!" put in Mrs. Pope.

"This man"--the Lord Proprietor held up a hand as though calling Heaven
to witness--"On what pretence do you suppose that he came here this
morning? Why, to thank me! To thank me for those very--er--articles of
which you tell me he makes a public mock! Look at the bag in his
hand--what do you suppose that it contains?"

"Adders," suggested Mrs. Pope. "I shouldn't be surprised."

"You may well say so, ma'am. It might well be adders. Indeed, I'm not
sure it isn't worse."

"Oh!" Mrs. Pope, already backing before the horrors of her own
imagination, caught at the balustrade for support.

"Daffodils, ma'am! A pres