d lapsed. Superficially clever,
perhaps, but vulgar. You made a mistake in taking them up."

"No, no, my dear! Be a little more charitable----"

"A _great_ mistake, Charles. But you always think you know best. What I
insist on is principle. Nothing can compensate for the lack of that.
Principle above cleverness----"

The vicar laughed good-naturedly.

"Why! what a dragon of virtue----"

He got no farther. Mrs. Peters suddenly assumed so dreadful an aspect
that he shrank aghast and began to fumble for excuses.

CHAPTER XIX

THE PLOT AGAIN THICKENS

At the end of three more days Lionel was feeling a little ill-used.
There was still no word from Beatrice, and the watching brief he held
began to look like a permanency. A sinecure, you remark disparagingly,
or (with an envious inflection) a soft job. Lionel had a roof above him,
luxurious food, money in his pocket and a pretty hostess: he would be a
churl who grumbled, a witless being who did not know when he was well
off.

But nevertheless he grumbled. He wanted to be up and doing. Dalliance
was delightful, no doubt, and he could thoroughly enjoy so pleasant a
pastime. But he required a soupcon of the serious to edge his palate for
frivolity, and not a single olive had been sent him from headquarters.
Beatrice might have written, surely: not necessarily a letter, but a
note, a telegram, even a picture post-card was not too much to have
expected. After all, he was a human being trying to do her a good turn.
She might, if she liked, consider him in the light of a dog; but even a
dog demands an occasional pat.

Yes, Beatrice had been a little inconsiderate. When they met again he
would subtly convey that she had not been quite so perfect in her
handling of the case as she might have been. Not blame--oh, no! that
would be too severe. But a touch of respectful and adoring frigidity--a
hint of polite and ardent disappointment, that was the note to be
struck. It would add to the subsequent reconciliation, or rather
readjustment. Iced champagne, in short, followed by liquor brandy.
Finally (perhaps ... who knows?) a mixture of the two, compounding that
exhilarating beverage, king's peg.

But that could only be drunk post-mortem.... Poor, dear old Lukos....
Well, for the present he must sport the blue ribbon....

But a dog will have its pat: if the mistress will not give it, another
may; and who can blame the devoted creature if it lingers piteously hard
by a