I couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't
believe any of Jimmy's sensational accusations of Brown, and I defended
him whenever Jimmy would let me get in a word edgewise. But when he told
me that Dad had come half across the world from New York to Sicily on
the strength of his statements, I was _wild_--partly with anger and
partly with anxiety to see my dear old Angel "immediately if not
sooner."

I don't remember a word Jimmy said to me, driving down to Sir Edward
Haines', where Dad had gone expecting to find me. I've just a hazy
recollection of being hurried through a beautiful garden; I knew that
poor Lady Brighthelmston (piteously worried about her son) and a rather
common girl and her father, whom we'd stumbled across in Blois, were
with us. Their cab had come behind ours. I saw Dad in the distance,
talking to Brown, who looked less like a hired _chauffeur_ than ever,
and then--then came the thunderbolt.

It was almost as difficult to believe at first that he had tricked me by
pretending to be Brown, when he was really Mr. Winston, as it would
have been to believe Jimmy Payne's penny-dreadful stories. But you can't
go on doubting when a virtuous old lady claims a man as her own son. I
had to accept the fact that he was Jack Winston.

For an instant I felt as if it were a play, and I were someone in the
audience, looking on. It didn't seem real, or to have anything to do
with me. Then I caught his eyes. They were saying, "Do forgive me"; and
with that I realized how much there was to forgive. He had made me
behave like a perfect little fool, giving him good advice and
tips--actually _tips_!--telling him (or very nearly) that he was "quite
like a gentleman," and hundreds of other outrageous things which all
rushed into my mind, as they say your whole past life does when you are
drowning.

I gave him a glance--quite a short one, because I could hardly look him
in the face, thinking of those tips and other things.

Then I turned away, and began talking to Dad; but very likely I talked
great nonsense, for I hadn't the least idea what I was saying, except
that I kept exclaiming the same five words over and over, like a
phonograph doll: "I _am_ glad to see you! I _am_ glad to see you!"

Perhaps I had presence of mind enough to invite the dear thing to take a
stroll with me, for the sake of escaping from Brown; for, anyway, I woke
up from a sort of dream, to find myself walking into a summer-house
alone with Dad.

"Don't