ncy,
through its power of stimulating that side of the human imagination the
most easily excited. They recognized only too well, how strong was a
certain primitive desire, especially in rural districts, by yielding to
which the world was made to go, and how remarkably hard it, was not to
yield to it, and how interesting and exciting to see or hear of others
yielding to it, and how (though here, of course, men might differ
secretly) reprehensible of them to do so! They recognized, too well, how
a certain kind of conscience would appreciate this rumour; and how
the puritans would lick their lengthened chops. They knew, too,
how irresistible to people of any imagination at all, was the mere
combination of a member of a class, traditionally supposed to be
inclined to having what it wanted, with a lady who lived alone! As
Harbinger said: It was really devilish awkward! For, to take any notice
of it would be to make more people than ever believe it true. And yet,
that it was working mischief, they felt by the secret voice in their
own souls, telling them that they would have believed it if they had not
known better. They hung about, waiting for Miltoun to come in.

The news was received by Lady Valleys with a sigh of intense relief, and
the remark that it was probably another lie. When Barbara confirmed it,
she only said: "Poor Eustace!" and at once wrote off to her husband
to say that 'Anonyma' was still married, so that the worst fortunately
could not happen.

Miltoun came in to lunch, but from his face and manner nothing could
be guessed. He was a thought more talkative than usual, and spoke of
Brabrook's speech--some of which he had heard. He looked at Courtier
meaningly, and after lunch said to him:

"Will you come round to my den?"

In that room, the old withdrawing-room of the Elizabethan wing--where
once had been the embroideries, tapestries, and missals of beruffled
dames were now books, pamphlets, oak-panels, pipes, fencing gear, and
along one wall a collection of Red Indian weapons and ornaments brought
back by Miltoun from the United States. High on the wall above these
reigned the bronze death-mask of a famous Apache Chief, cast from
a plaster taken of the face by a professor of Yale College, who had
declared it to be a perfect specimen of the vanishing race. That visage,
which had a certain weird resemblance to Dante's, presided over the room
with cruel, tragic stoicism. No one could look on it without feeli