le of mere vulgar inquisitiveness, you see. Her inmost core
had the satisfaction of feeling that its visible outer husk, Miss
Constance Smith-Dickenson, was killing two birds with one stone. The way
in which the gentleman continued justified it. "Besides, I know I may
rely upon _you_ to say nothing about it." Clearly the effect of her
visible, almost palpable, discretion! For really--said the core--this
good gentleman never set eyes on my husk till yesterday evening. And he
is a Man of the World and all that sort of thing.

Miss Smith-Dickenson knew perfectly well how her sister Lilian--the one
with the rolling, liquid eyes, now Baroness Porchammer--would have
responded. But she herself mistrusting her powers of gushing right, did
not feel equal to "Oh, but how nice of you to say so, dear Mr. Pellew!"
And she felt that she was not cut out for a satirical puss neither, like
her sister Georgie, now Mrs. Amphlett Starfax, to whom a mental review
of possible responses assigned, "Oh dear, how complimentary we are, all
of a sudden!"--with possibly a heavy blow on the gentleman's fore-arm
with a fan, if she had one. So she decided on "Pray go on. You may rely
on my discretion." It was simple, and made her feel like Elizabeth in
"Pride and Prejudice"--a safe model, if a little old-fashioned.

The gentleman pulled at his cigar in a considerative way, and said in a
perfunctory one:--"I am sure I may." Nevertheless, he postponed his
answer through a mouthful of smoke, dismissing it into the atmosphere
finally, to allow of speech determined on during its detention: "I'm
afraid it's Adrian Torrens--there can't be two of the name who write
poetry. Besides--the dog!"

The lady said "Good Heavens!" in a frightened underbreath, and was
visibly shocked. For it is usually someone of whom one knows nothing at
all that gets shot accidentally. Now, Adrian Torrens was the name of a
man recently distinguished as the author of some remarkable verse. A man
of very good family too. So--altogether!... This was the expression used
by Miss Smith-Dickenson's core, almost unrebuked. "Of course, I remember
the poem about the collie-dog," she added aloud.

"Can you remember the name of the dog? Wasn't it Aeneas?"

"No--Achilles."

"I meant Achilles. Well--his dog's Achilles."

"I thought you said there was no name on the collar."

"No more there was. But I understand that Gwen met him yesterday
evening--down by Arthur's Bridge, I believe--and ha