ne, that he had complained of.

'I killed her; I could not let her live. You were unjust in accusing the
authoress of heartlessness.'

'If I did, I retract,' said he. 'She steers too evidently from the
centre of the vessel. She has the organ in excess.'

'Proof that it is not squandered.'

'The point concerns direction.'

'Have I made so bad a choice of my friends?'

'It is the common error of the sprightly to suppose that in parrying a
thrust they blind our eyes.'

'The world sees always what it desires to see, Mr. Whitmonby.'

'The world, my dear Mrs. Warwick, is a blundering machine upon its own
affairs, but a cruel sleuth-hound to rouse in pursuit.'

'So now you have me chased by sight and scent. And if I take wing?'

'Shots! volleys!--You are lawful game. The choice you have made of your
friends, should oblige you to think of them.'

'I imagine I do. Have I offended any, or one?'

'I will not say that. You know the commotion in a French kitchen when
the guests of the house declined a particular dish furnished them by
command. The cook and his crew were loyal to their master, but, for
the love of their Art, they sent him notice. It is ill serving a mad
sovereign.'

Diana bowed to the compact little apologue.

'I will tell you another story, traditional in our family from my
great-grandmother, a Spanish woman,' she said. 'A cavalier serenaded
his mistress, and rascal mercenaries fell upon him before he could draw
sword. He battered his guitar on their pates till the lattice opened
with a cry, and startled them to flight. "Thrice blessed and beloved!"
he called to her above, in reference to the noise, "it was merely
a diversion of the accompaniment." Now there was loyal service to a
sovereign!'

'You are certainly an angel!' exclaimed Whitmonby. 'I swallow the story,
and leave it to digestion to discover the appositeness. Whatever tuneful
instrument one of your friends possesses shall solace your slumbers or
batter the pate of your enemy. But discourage the habitual serenader.'

'The musician you must mean is due here now, by appointment to meet
you,' said Diana, and set him momentarily agape with the name of Mr.
Percy Dacier.

That was the origin of the alliance between the young statesman and
a newspaper editor. Whitmonby, accepting proposals which suited him,
quitted the house, after an hour of political talk, no longer inclined
to hint at the 'habitual serenader,' but very ready to fall foul o