The Datchet Diamonds. Marsh Richard

of your sex to address to me language for which, were the speaker a man, I would thrash him within an inch of his life."

      Miss Strong, with white face, looked from one to the other.

      "Cyril, she didn't mean what you think. Tell him, Charlie, that you didn't mean what he thinks."

      Through her glasses Miss Wentworth surveyed the angry man with shrewd, unfaltering eyes.

      "Really, Mr. Paxton puts me in a difficult position. He is so quick to take offence where none was intended, that one hardly knows what to think. Surely, when a man shows such heat and such violence in resenting what only a distorted imagination could twist into an actual imputation of dishonesty, it suggests that his own conscience can scarcely be quite clear."

      Mr. Paxton seemed struggling as if to speak, and then to put a bridle on his tongue. The truth is, that he was only too conscious that he was in no mood to be a match in argument-or, for the matter of that, in retort either-for this clear-sighted lady. He felt that, if he was not careful, he would go too far; that he had better take himself away before he had made a greater exhibition of himself than he had already. So he contented himself with what was meant as an assumption of dignity.

      "That is enough. Between you and me nothing more need, or can, be said. I have the honour, Miss Wentworth, of wishing you goodnight."

      She showed no symptoms of being crushed. On the contrary, she retained her coolness, and also her powers of exasperation.

      "Good-night, Mr. Paxton. Shall I ring the bell, Daisy, or will you show Mr. Paxton to the door?"

      Miss Strong darted at her a look which, on that occasion at any rate, was not a look of love, and followed Mr. Paxton, who already had vanished from the room. Finding him in the hall, she nestled up to his side.

      "I am sorry, Cyril, that this should have happened. If I had had the least suspicion of anything of the kind, I never would have asked you to come."

      Mr. Paxton wore, or attempted to wear, an air of masculine superiority.

      "My dear Daisy, I have seldom met Miss Wentworth without her having insulted me. On this occasion, however, she has gone too far. I will never, willingly, darken her door again. I hope you will not ask me; but if you do I shall be compelled to decline."

      "It's my door as well as hers. But it won't be for long. Still, I don't think she meant what you thought she did-she couldn't be so absurd! It's a way she has of talking; she often says things without considering the construction of which they are capable."

      "It is only the fact of her being a woman, my dear Daisy, which gives her the impunity of which she takes undue advantage."

      "Cyril, you mustn't brand all women because of one. We are not all like that. Do you suppose that I am not aware that the person, be it man or woman, who imagines you to be capable of dishonesty either does not know you, or else is stark, raving mad? Do you think that I could love you without the absolute certainty of knowing you to be a man of blameless honour? I don't suppose you are an angel-I'm not one either, though perhaps you mightn't think it, sir! And I take it for granted that you have done plenty of things which you would rather have left undone-as I have too! But I do know that, regarded from the point of view of any standard, whether human or Divine, in all essentials you are an honest man, and that you could be nothing else."

      The eulogium was a warm one-it made Mr. Paxton feel a trifle queer.

      "Thank you, darling,"

      So he murmured, and he kissed her.

      "You will meet me again to-morrow night to tell me how the fortune fares?"

      He tried to avoid doing so; but the effort only failed-he had to wince. He could only hope that she did not notice it.