y
not have confessed it openly? .. . . and not have played the thief's
trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled by your manly and upright
bearing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first
entertained of your purpose? Shame on you, young men! shame!"

The words coursed impetuously from his lips; his face burned with
indignation. He had broken away from his daughter's hold, while she,
pale and very still, stood leaning one hand upon the table. His white
hair was tossed back from his brow; his eyes flashed; his attitude
though vengeful and threatening, was at the same time so bold and
commanding that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the contour of
his figure, and wondering how he would look in marble as an infuriated
Viking.

One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington and Lorimer
was that they never lost temper. Either they were too lazy or too
well-bred. Undoubtedly they both considered it "bad form." This
indifference stood them in good stead now. They showed no sign whatever
of offense, though the old farmer's outbreak of wrath was so sudden and
unlooked for, that they remained for a moment silent out of sheer
surprise. Then rising with unruffled serenity, they took up their caps
preparatory to departure. Errington's gentle, refined voice broke the
silence.

"You are in error, Mr. Gueldmar," he said in chilly but perfectly polite
tones. "I regret you should be so hasty in your judgment of us. If you
accepted us as 'men' when you first met us, I cannot imagine why you
should now take us for spies. The two terms are by no means synonymous.
I know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he called upon me, and that
I, as in duty bound, returned his call. I am ignorant of his character
and disposition. I may add that I have no desire to be enlightened
respecting them. I do not often take a dislike to anybody, but it so
happens that I have done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. I know
Lorimer doesn't care for him, and I don't think my other two friends are
particularly attached to him. I have nothing more to say, except that I
fear we have outstayed our welcome. Permit us now to wish you good
evening. And you,"--he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to Thelma,
who had listened to his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her
face--"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense
towards your father or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, but--"

Thelma inte