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Simon Orts paused with a short laugh. The woman had risen to her feet, her eyes widening and a thought troubled, though her lips smiled contemptuously.

“La, I should have comprehended that this late in the evening you would be in no condition to converse with ladies. Believe me, though, Mr. Orts, I would be glad to credit your warning to officious friendliness, were it not that the odor about your person compels me to attribute it to gin.”

“Oh, I have been drinking,” he conceded; “I have been drinking with a most commendable perseverance for these fifteen years. But at present I am far from drunk.” Simon Orts took a turn about the hall; in an instant he faced her with an odd, almost tender smile, “You adorable, empty-headed, pink-and-white fool,” said Simon Orts, “what madness induced you to come to Usk? You know that Rokesle wants you; you know that you don’t mean to marry him. Then why come to Usk? Do you know who is king in this sea-washed scrap of earth?–Rokesle. German George reigns yonder in England, but here, in the Isle of Usk, Vincent Floyer is king. And it is not precisely a convent that he directs. The men of Usk, I gather, after ten years’ experience in the administering of spiritual consolation hereabouts”–and his teeth made their appearance in honor of the jest,–“are part fisherman, part smuggler, part pirate, and part devil. Since the last ingredient predominates, they have no very unreasonable apprehension of hell, and would cheerfully invade it if Rokesle bade ’em do so. As I have pointed out, my worthy patron is subject to the frailties of the flesh. Oh, I am candid, for if you report me to his Lordship I shall lie out of it. I have had practice enough to do it handsomely. But Rokesle–do you not know what Rokesle is–?”

The Vicar of Heriz Magna would have gone on, but Lady Allonby had interrupted, her cheeks flaming. “Yes, yes,” she cried;’ “I know him to be a worthy gentleman. ‘Tis true I could not find it in my heart to marry him, yet I am proud to rank Lord Rokesle among my friends.” She waved her hand toward the chimney-piece, where hung–and hangs to-day,–the sword of Aluric Floyer, the founder of the house of Rokesle. “Do you see that old sword, Mr. Orts? The man who wielded it long ago was a gallant gentleman and a stalwart captain. And my Lord, as he told me but on Thursday afternoon, hung it there that he might always have in mind the fact that he bore the name of this man, and must bear it meritoriously. My Lord is a gentleman. La, believe me, if you, too, were a gentleman, Mr. Orts, you would understand! But a gentleman is not a talebearer; a gentleman does not defame any person behind his back, far less the person to whom he owes his daily bread.”

“So he has been gulling you?” said Simon Orts; then he added quite inconsequently: “I had not thought anything you could say would hurt me. I discover I was wrong. Perhaps I am not a gentleman. Faith, no; I am only a shabby drunkard, a disgrace to my cloth, am I not, Anastasia? Accordingly, I fail to perceive what old Aluric Floyer has to do with the matter in hand. He was reasonably virtuous, I suppose; putting aside a disastrous appetite for fruit, so was Adam: but, viewing their descendants, I ruefully admit that in each case the strain has deteriorated.”

There was a brief silence; then Lady Allonby observed: “Perhaps I was discourteous. I ask your forgiveness, Mr. Orts. And now, if you will pardon the suggestion, I think you had better go to your dying parishioner.”

But she had touched the man to the quick. “I am a drunkard; who made me so? Who was it used to cuddle me with so many soft words and kisses–yes, kisses, my Lady!–till a wealthier man came a-wooing, and then flung me aside like an old shoe?”