given him no encouragement."

"Fiddlesticks, Clara!"

"You wouldn't believe me when I told you that poor Algy Turner loved me,
and he killed himself."

"Nothing of the kind; he died of cholera."

"Reginald," retorted Mrs. Clibborn, with asperity, "his death was most
mysterious. None of the doctors understood it. If he didn't poison
himself, he died of a broken heart. And I think you're very unkind to
me."

With some difficulty, being a heavy woman, she lifted herself from the
floor; and by the time she was safely on her feet, Mrs. Clibborn was
blowing and puffing like a grampus.

The Colonel, whose mind had wandered to other things, suddenly bethought
himself that he had a duty to perform.

"Where's my horsewhip, Clara? I command you to give it me."

"Reginald, if you have the smallest remnant of affection for me, you
will not hurt this unfortunate young man. Remember that Algy Turner
killed himself. You can't blame him for not wanting to marry poor Mary.
My dear, she has absolutely no figure. And men are so susceptible to
those things."

The Colonel stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Clibborn sat down to
meditate.

"I thought my day for such things was past," she murmured. "I knew it
all along. The way he looked at me was enough--we women have such quick
perceptions! Poor boy, how he must suffer!"

She promised herself that no harsh word of hers should drive James into
the early grave where lay the love-lorn Algy Turner. And she sighed,
thinking what a curse it was to possess that fatal gift of beauty!

* * *

When Little Primpton heard the news, Little Primpton was agitated.
Certainly it was distressed, and even virtuously indignant, but at the
same time completely unable to divest itself of that little flutter of
excitement which was so rare, yet so enchanting, a variation from the
monotony of its daily course. The well-informed walked with a lighter
step, and held their heads more jauntily, for life had suddenly acquired
a novel interest. With something new to talk about, something fresh to
think over, with a legitimate object of sympathy and resentment, the
torpid blood raced through their veins as might that of statesmen during
some crisis in national affairs. Let us thank God, who has made our
neighbours frail, and in His infinite mercy caused husband and wife to
quarrel; Tom, Dick, and Harry to fall more or less discreditably in
love; this dear friend of ours to lose his money, and that her
repu