ever any afterwards for Norah. She said, "I believe
there's a joke about Belgium, and that Mr. Furnival's in it."

Viola laughed. It was, on the whole, the best thing she could do. If I'd
giggled, too, it might have helped, but I didn't dare to, sitting there
beside Mrs. Thesiger.

The Canon pushed a dish of chocolates in front of his youngest daughter
to keep her quiet, and then plunged like a hero into the tendencies of
modern music, which he deplored. He asked my opinion of Richard Strauss,
a composer of whom he was profoundly ignorant. Scarlatti and Corelli
tided us over dessert, and Purcell floated us tenderly into the
drawing-room and coffee. After coffee the Canon took me into the library
(he said) for a smoke.

I could see by the fuss he made about his cigarettes that he was nervous,
staving off the moment.

It came with the silence of the first cigarette. There were no
transitions. He simply settled himself a little deeper into his chair and
said, "I'm a little anxious about that girl of mine."

I said, "_Are_ you, sir?" as if I were surprised.

"Well"--he was evidently trying to steer between his decision to ignore
and his desire for knowledge--"you see, she's rather reckless and
impulsive."

I agreed. She was--a little.

"More than a little, I'm afraid. Do you know anything of this man Jevons
she talks about?"

That was masterly of the Canon, the subtle suggestion that Viola did no
more than talk about Jevons, the still more subtle implication that if
she _could_ talk about him all was well.

I said that Jevons was a very decent fellow, and added that Captain
Thesiger had met him.

It was mean of me to shovel the responsibility on to Reggie, but I wanted
to gain time, too.

The Canon remembered that Reggie had said something. And then suddenly he
discarded subtlety and told me straight out that Reggie had said Jevons
was a bit of a bounder, and he supposed he was.

I could see him watching me, trying to break down my defences.

I dodged him with "These things are comparative," and he floored me with
a sudden thrust:

"No, my dear boy, they are _not_."

He meditated. "What sort of age is he?"

I told him, "About thirty-one or two."

"Ah!"

And then: Did I know anything about the young man's morals?

I assured him I had never heard a word against them.

He looked at me keenly and I remembered the words of Withers which I
_had_ heard. Still, I knew nothing against Jevons's morals, and