ad.

"You will have to explain," she said. "I don't understand anything yet."

"Nor I," came the quiet retort. "It's the woman's privilege to explain
first, isn't it?"

Against her will, the blood rose in her face. She threw him a quick
glance.

"I can't possibly explain anything here," she said.

He met her look with steady eyes.

"Let me tell you the story of a fraud," he said; and proceeded without
further preliminary. "There was once a man--a second son, without
prospects and without fame--who had the good fortune to do a service to
a woman. He went away immediately afterwards lest he should make a fool
of himself, for she was miles above his head, anyway. But he never
forgot her. The mischief was done, so far as he was concerned."

He broke off, and raised his champagne to his lips as if he drank to a
memory.

Priscilla was listening, but her eyes were downcast. She wore the old,
absent look that her stepmother always deprecated. The soft drawl at her
side continued, every syllable distinct and measured.

"Years passed, and things changed. The man had belonged to a cadet
branch of an aristocratic British family. But one heir after another
died, till only he was left to inherit. The woman belonged to the older
branch of the family, but, being a woman, she was passed over. A time
came when he was invited by the head of the house to go and see his
inheritance. He would have gone at once and gladly, but for a hint at
the end of the letter to the effect that, if he would do his part, what
the French shamelessly call a _mariage de convenance_ might be arranged
between his cousin and himself--an arrangement advantageous to them both
from a certain point of view. He didn't set up for a paragon of
morality. Perhaps even, had things been a little different, he might
have been willing. As it was, he didn't like the notion, and he jibbed."
He paused. "But for all that," he said, his voice yet quieter and more
deliberate, "he wanted the woman, if he could make her care for him.
That was his difficulty. He had a feeling all along that the thing must
be an even greater offence to her than it was to him. He worried it all
through, and at last he worked out a scheme for them both. He called
himself by an old school _alias_, and came to her as a stranger----

"You're not eating anything, sweetheart. Wouldn't it be as well, just
for decency's sake? There's a comic ending to this story, so you mustn't
be sad. Who's that bo