ined a fair shape. Short-necked, florid and plethoric, he had the
air of the man who seldom makes a long illness at the end. His eyes were
very blue, and the lids were puffed and heavy, whilst the mouth, Mr.
Caryll remarked in a critical, detached spirit, was stupid rather than
sensuous. He made his survey swiftly, and the result left him wondering.

Meanwhile the earl was addressing his son, whose hand was being bandaged
by Gaskell. There was little variety in his invective. "You villain!"
he bawled at him. "You damned villain!" Then he patted the girl's head.
"You found the scoundrel out before you married him," said he. "I am
glad on't; glad on't!"

"'Tis such a reversing of the usual order of things that it calls for
wonder," said Mr. Caryll.

"Eh?" quoth his lordship. "Who the devil are you? One of his friends?"

"Your lordship overwhelms me," said Mr. Caryll gravely, making a bow. He
observed the bewilderment in Ostermore's eyes, and began to realize at
that early stage of their acquaintance that to speak ironically to the
Earl of Ostermore was not to speak at all.

It was Hortensia--a very tearful Hortensia now who explained. "This
gentleman saved me, my lord," she said.

"Saved you?" quoth he dully. "How did he come to save you?"

"He discovered the parson," she explained.

The earl looked more and more bewildered. "Just so," said Mr. Caryll.
"It was my privilege to discover that the parson is no parson."

"The parson is no parson?" echoed his lordship, scowling more and more.
"Then what the devil is the parson?"

Hortensia freed herself from his protecting arms. "He is a villain," she
said, "who was hired by my Lord Rotherby to come here and pretend to be
a parson." Her eyes flamed, her cheeks were scarlet. "God help me for a
fool, my lord, to have put my faith in that man! Oh!" she choked. "The
shame--the burning shame of it! I would I had a brother to punish him!"

Lord Ostermore was crimson, too, with indignation. Mr. Caryll was
relieved to see that he was capable of so much emotion. "Did I not warn
you against him, Hortensia?" said he. "Could you not have trusted that
I knew him--I, his father, to my everlasting shame?" Then he swung
upon Rotherby. "You dog!" he began, and there--being a man of little
invention--words failed him, and wrath alone remained, very intense, but
entirely inarticulate.

Rotherby moved forward till he reached the table, then stood leaning
upon it, scowling at the compa