mself,
out of earshot but within, easy hail.

Hearing nothing, he made little more of the guarded conference that
began on his withdrawal. The man, entering the dooryard, had cornered
the girl in an angle of the fence. He seemed at once insistent,
determined, and thoroughly angry; while she exhibited perfect
composure with some evident contempt and implacable obstinacy.
Nevertheless, in a brace of minutes the fellow seemingly brought forth
some telling argument. She wavered and her accents rose in doubt:

"Is that true?"

His reply, if inaudible, was as forcible as it was patently an
affirmative.

"I don't believe you!"

"You don't dare doubt me."

This time he was clearly articulate, and betrayed a conviction that he
had won the day: an impression borne out by the evident irresolution
of the girl, prefacing her abrupt surrender.

"Very well," she said in a tone of resignation.

"You'll go?"

"Yes."

He moved aside, to give her way through the gate. But she hung back,
with a glance for P. Sybarite.

"One moment, please," she said: "I must leave a message."

"Nonsense--!"

She showed displeasure in the lift of her chin. "I think I'm my own
mistress--as yet."

He growled indistinguishably.

"You have my promise," she cut him short coldly. "Wait for me." And
she turned back to the house.

Wondering, P. Sybarite went to meet her. Impulsively she gave him her
hand a second time; with as little reflection, he took it in both his
own.

"Is there nothing I can do?"

Her voice was broken: "I don't know. I must go--it's imperative....
Could you--?... I wonder!"

"Anything you ask," he asserted confidently.

Hesitating briefly, in a tone little above a whisper: "I must go," she
repeated. "I can't refuse. But--alone. Do you understand--?"

"You mean--without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming in
the gateway.

"Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for me
to get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur--"

The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.

"Leave it to me," he said with fine simplicity.

"Molly!" cried the man at the gate.

"Don't answer," P. Sybarite advised: "if you don't, he'll lose
patience and come to fetch you. And then--"

"But I'm afraid he may--"

"_Molly!_"

"Don't you fear for me: God's good to the Irish."

"MOLLY!"

"Do be quiet," suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly.

The other started as if slapped.

"What's that?" he b