ce, for so much had happened since they last met.
Lionel had been living in a penny novelette, and her fate could not have
been much more fortunate. Yet now they seemed to have nothing to say
beyond the commonplaces of friendly acquaintanceship. It was Lionel who
broke the silence.

"You must let me say that...." He stopped. He could not honestly say he
was sorry for the death of Lukos, so he changed the form of his
statement: "--that I am sorry for your trouble. You know it already, but
I should like to tell it you.... I suppose it must be true?"

"Thank you," Beatrice replied evenly. "Yes, I expect it is true; but, as
I wrote to you, I am going to make sure."

"Is that wise?"

"Perhaps not, but I mean to go."

Lionel did not attempt to argue with her, to reason or persuade. The
finality of tone and his knowledge of the woman made him give up at once
any thought of such a useless effort. "But I go with her," he resolved,
"either as husband or servant. And if she won't take me, I'll go on my
own if I have to steal a ride under the train!"

"Did you call at the house?" he asked.

"I came straight across here, seeing you the moment I entered the gate.
Perhaps I had better see my sister before we begin to talk. Our
conversation may be long."

Lionel moved uneasily.

"I am sorry to say," he began, "that your sister feels anything but
well-disposed toward you. She resents your suspicion, and ... and...."
he stuck fast.

"Refuses to see me?" she suggested.

He nodded. "I have hopes of winning her over yet, but...."

"If she has said 'No' she will stick to it," said Beatrice, digging her
parasol into the lawn. "She can be a darling, but she can also be
pig-headed. What do you think of her?" she added quickly, turning upon
him.

"Charming," said Lionel. "Except for this unfortunate weakness. And
there is some excuse even for that."

"Do you consider her pretty?" It sounded an odd question, but oddities
were lost on him now.

"Yes; very pretty."

"As pretty as I?" asked Beatrice.

"Quite," he laughed, beginning to feel more at home, "but in a different
way. And I prefer your way," he added with sincerity.

"That is a little crude," she smiled. "I expected a more delicate
compliment from a man of your education. Please pay me one at once."

To be asked for a delicate compliment at a moment's notice must be much
the same as if the _Punch_ editor were asked for a joke instanter. You
can imagine Mr. Seaman