et to
say we have never yet done anything worthy of note, or likely to
distinguish us from all the other Desmonds, whose name is legion."

"If you are going to tell me you live at Coole," says Miss Beresford, in
a tone that is almost tragic, "I warn you it will be the last straw, and
that I shan't be able to bear it."

"I am not going to tell you anything," protests he.

"But you must," declares she, illogically. "I may as well hear the worst
at once. Go on," heroically; "tell me the truth. _Do_ you live there?"

"I'm awfully afraid I do," says Mr. Desmond, feeling somehow, without
knowing why, distinctly ashamed of his name and residence.

"I knew it! I _felt_ it!" says Monica, with the calmness of despair.
"Take me back to the bank at once,--this very instant, please. Oh, what
a _row_ I should get into if they only knew!"

Very justly offended at the turn affairs have taken, Mr. Desmond rows
her in silence to the landing-place, in silence gives her his hand to
alight, in silence makes his boat safe, without so much as a glance at
her, although he _knows_ she is standing a little way from him,
irresolute, remorseful, and uncertain.

He might, perhaps, have maintained this dignified indifference to the
end, but that, unfortunately lifting his eyes, he catches sight of her
in this repentant attitude, with her head bent down, and her slim
fingers toying nervously with the lilies of his own gathering.

This picture flings dignity to the winds. Going up to her, he says, in a
would-be careless but unmistakably offended voice, "May I ask what I
have done, that 'they,' whoever they are, should consider you had
disgraced yourself by being with me for half an hour?"

"_You_ have done nothing," says Monica, faintly. "It was your uncle."

"My _uncle!_--George Desmond! Why, what on earth can _he_ have done?"
demands he, bewildered.

"I don't know." Feeling this is indeed a lame answer to a most natural
question, she goes on hurriedly, "It all happened twenty years ago,
and----"

"But what happened?" asks he, with pardonable impatience.

"Something dreadfully wicked," says Monica, solemnly. "Something really
very, _very_ bad, because Aunt Priscilla can't hear you spoken of with
common patience."

"_Me!_"

"Not so much you, perhaps, as your name. She hates the very sound of it.
There isn't a doubt about _that_; because, though I have not heard the
exact story yet, I know both my aunts grow actually faint with horror