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“Teddy!” she said at last.

“What?” he asked.

“I told you a lie,” she said, humbly tragic.

His soul stirred uneasily.

“Oh aye?” he said casually.

She was not satisfied. He ought to be more moved.

“Yes,” she said.

He cut a piece of bread.

“Was it a good one?” he asked.

She was piqued. Then she considered—wasit a good one? Then she laughed.

“No,” she said, “it wasn’t up to much. ”

“Ah!” he said easily, but with a steady strength of fondness for her in his tone. “Get it out then. ”

It became a little more difficult.

“You know that white stocking,” she said earnestly. “I told you a lie. It wasn’t a sample. It was a valentine. ”

A little frown came on his brow.

“Then what did you invent it as a sample for?” he said. But he knew this weakness of hers. The touch of anger in his voice frightened her.

“I was afraid you’d be cross,” she said pathetically.

“I’ll bet you were vastly afraid,” he said.

“I was, Teddy. ”

There was a pause. He was resolving one or two things in his mind.

“And who sent it?” he asked.

“I can guess,” she said, “though there wasn’t a word with it— except—”

She ran to the sitting-room and returned with a slip of paper.

“Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer.
Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer. ”

He read it twice, then a dull red flush came on his face.

“And whodo you guess it is?” he asked, with a ringing of anger in his voice.

“I suspect it’s Sam Adams,” she said, with a little virtuous indignation.

Whiston was silent for a moment.

“Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with pearls?—and how can he say ‘wear these for me’ when there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain to invent a proper verse. ”

He screwed the sup of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire.

“I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last year,” she said.

“Why, did he send one then?”

“Yes. I thought you’d be wild if you knew. ”

His jaw set rather sullenly.

Presently he rose, and went to wash himself, rolling back his sleeves and pulling open his shirt at the breast. It was as if his fine, clear-cut temples and steady eyes were degraded by the lower, rather brutal part of his face. But she loved it. As she whisked about, clearing the table, she loved the way in which he stood washing himself. He was such a man. She liked to see his neck glistening with water as he swilled it. It amused her and pleased her and thrilled her. He was so sure, so permanent, he had her so utterly in his power. It gave her a delightful, mischievous sense of liberty. Within his grasp, she could dart about excitingly.

He turned round to her, his face red from the cold water, his eyes fresh and very blue.

“You haven’t been seeing anything of him, have you?” he asked roughly.

“Yes,” she answered, after a moment, as if caught guilty. “He got into the tram with me, and he asked me to drink a coffee and a Benedictine in the Royal. ”

“You’ve got it off fine and glib,” he said sullenly. “And did you?”

“Yes,” she replied, with the air of a traitor before the rack.

The blood came up into his neck and face, he stood motionless, dangerous.

“It was cold, and it was such fun to go into the Royal,” she said.

“You’d go off with a nigger for a packet of chocolate,” he said, in anger and contempt, and some bitterness. Queer how he drew away from her, cut her off from him.