asn't worth that! And, for all his
present dulness of sensation, a sob rose in his throat. Madame de
Vallorbes, resplendent in crocus-yellow brocade, costly lace, and seed
pearls, the young man, her companion--the young man of the light,
forked beard, domed skull, vain eyes and peevish mouth--the young man
of holy and dissolute aspect--were good enough instruments for the
Eternal Justice to employ in respect of him, Richard Calmady.

"Look, M. Destournelle," Helen said very quietly, "this is my cousin of
whom I have already spoken to you. But I wished to spare him if
possible, and give him room for self-justification, so I did not tell
you all. Richard, this is my friend, M. Destournelle, to whom my honour
and happiness are not wholly indifferent."

Dickie looked up. He did not speak. Vaguely he prayed it might all soon
be over. Paul Destournelle looked down. He raised his eye-glass and
bowed himself, examining Richard's mutilated legs and strangely-shod
feet. He broke into a little, bleating, goat-like laugh.

"_Mais c'est etonnant!_" he observed reflectively.

"I was in his house," Helen continued. "I was there unprotected, having
absolute faith in his loyalty."--She paused a moment. "He seduced me.
Richard can you deny that?"

"_Canaille!_" M. Destournelle murmured. He drew a pair of gloves
through his hands, holding them by the finger-tips. The metal buttons
of them were large, three on each wrist. Those gloves arrested
Richard's attention oddly.

"I do not deny it," Dickie said.

"And having thus outraged, he deserted me. Do you deny that?"

"No," Dickie said again. For it was true, that which she asserted,
true, though penetrated by subtle falsehood impossible, as it seemed to
him, to combat,--"No, I do not deny it."

"You hear!" Helen exclaimed. "Now do what you think fit."

Still Destournelle drew the gloves through his hands, holding them by
the finger-tips.

"Under other circumstances I might feel myself compelled to do you the
honour of sending you a challenge, _monsieur_," he said. "But a man of
sensibility like myself cannot do such violence to his moral and
artistic code as to fight with an outcast of nature, an abortion, such
as yourself. The sword and the pistol I necessarily reserve for my
equals. The deformed person, the cripple, whose very existence is an
offense to the eye and to every delicacy of sense, must be condescended
to, and, if chastised at all, must be chastised without ceremon