Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. What his head conceived his hand executed. “But—your people!” she gasped. ” He snarled. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and does all the dirty work for the Secret Committee. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. “How would you prevent it?” she asked. Well, I don't blame you on that ground.
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