having the grace to stumble a little in her speech. "And--and it's all
your fault."

The war was thus, by happy audacity, carried into Newhaven's own
quarters.

"My fault!" he exclaimed. "My fault that you walk all day with that
curate!"

Then Miss Trix--and let no irrelevant considerations mar the
appreciation of fine acting--dropped her eyes and murmured softly:

"I--I was so terribly afraid of seeming to expect YOU."

Wherewith she (and not he) ran away lightly up the stairs, turning just
one glance downward as she reached the landing. Newhaven was looking up
from below with an "enchanted" smile--the word is Trix's own; I should
probably have used a different one.

Was then the curate of Poltons utterly defeated--brought to his knees,
only to be spurned? It seemed so; and he came down to dinner that
night with a subdued and melancholy expression. Trix, on the other
hand, was brilliant and talkative to the last degree, and the gayety
spread from her all around the table, leaving untouched only the
rejected lover and Mrs. Wentworth; for the last named lady, true to her
distinguishing quality, had begun to talk to poor Jack Ives in low,
soothing tones.

After dinner Trix was not visible; but the door of the little boudoir
beyond stood half-open, and very soon Newhaven edged his way through.
Almost at the same moment Jack Ives and Mrs. Wentworth passed out of
the window and began to walk up and down the gravel. Nobody but myself
appeared to notice these remarkable occurrences, but I watched them
with keen interest. Half an hour passed, and then there smote on my
watchful ear the sound of a low laugh from the boudoir. It was
followed almost immediately by a stranger sound from the gravel walk.
Then, all in a moment, two things happened. The boudoir door opened,
and Trix, followed by Newhaven, came in, smiling; from the window
entered Jack Ives and Mrs. Wentworth. My eyes were on the curate. He
gave one sudden, comprehending glance toward the other couple; then he
took the widow's hand, led her up to Dora, and said, in low yet
penetrating tones.

"Will you wish us joy, Mrs. Polton?"

The squire, Rippleby, and Algy Stanton were round them in an instant.
I kept my place, watching now the face of Trix Queenborough. She
turned first flaming red, then very pale. I saw her turn to Newhaven
and speak one or two urgent, imperative words to him. Then, drawing
herself up to her full height, she crossed the roo