it, Barbe."

"My dear Rash," she expostulated, "it isn't being disagreeable to have
common sense. It's all the more necessary for me not to abnegate that,
for the simple reason that you do."

He hurled himself to the other end of the mantelpiece, picking up the
second candlestick and putting it down with force. "It's surely not
abnegating common sense just to--to recognize honesty."

"Please don't fiddle with those candlesticks. They're the rarest
American workmanship, and if you were to break one of them Aunt Marion
would kill me. I'll feel safer about you if you sit down."

"All right. I'll sit down." He drew to him a small frail chair,
sitting astride on it. "Only please don't fidget me."

"Would you mind taking _that_ chair?" She pointed to something solid
and masculine by Phyffe. "That little thing is one of Aunt Marion's
pet pieces of old Dutch colonial. If anything were to happen to
it--But you were talking about recognizing honesty," she continued, as
he moved obediently. "That's exactly what I should like you to do,
Rash, dear--with your eyes open. If I'm not looking anyone can pull
the wool over them, whether it's this girl or someone else."

"In other words I'm a fool, as you were good enough to say----"

"Oh, do forget that. I couldn't help saying it, as I think you ought
to admit; but don't keep bringing it up every time I do my best to
meet you pleasantly. I'm not going to quarrel with you any more, Rash.
I've made a vow to that effect and I'm going to keep it. But if I'm to
keep it on my side you mustn't badger me on yours. It doesn't do me
any good, and it does yourself a lot of harm." Having delivered this
homily she took a tone of brisk cheerfulness. "Now, you said over the
phone that you were coming to tell me good news."

"Well, that was it."

"What was it?"

"That she was ready to do anything--even to disappear."

"And you wouldn't let her."

"That I couldn't let her--with nothing to show for it."

"But she will have something to show for it--in the end. She knows
that as well as I do. Do you suppose for a minute that she doesn't
understand the kind of man she's dealing with?"

"You mean that----?"

"Rash, dear, no girl who knows as much as this girl knows could help
seeing at a glance that she's got a pigeon to pluck, as the French
say, and of course she means to pluck it. You can't blame her for
that, being what she is; but for heaven's sake let her pluck it in her
own way. Don'