"that you do not imagine that these are the
gifts to achieve success in any calling."

"I don't know—I am not sure, but I rather
suspect they find their place at the Bar."

"Take my word for it, then, you are totally
mistaken. It is an error just as unworthy of
your good sense as it is of your good feeling!"
And he spoke with warmth and energy.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Calvert. "For
three months I have been exploring to find one
spot in your whole nature that would respond
fiercely to attack, and at last I have it."

"You put the matter somewhat offensively to
me, or I'd not have replied in this fashion—but
let us change the topic, it is an unpleasant one."

"I don't think so. When a man nurtures
what his friend believes to be a delusion, and a
dangerous delusion, what better theme can there
be than its discussion?"

"I'll not discuss it," said Loyd, with
determination.

"You'll not discuss it?"

"No!"

"What if I force you? What if I place the
question on grounds so direct and so personal
that you can't help it?"

"I don't understand you."

"You shall presently. For some time back I
have been thinking of asking an explanation
from you—an explanation of your conduct at
the villa. Before you had established an
intimacy there, I stood well with every one. The
old woman, with all her respect for my family
and connexions, was profuse in her attentions.
Of the girls, as I somewhat rashly confided to
you, I had only to make my choice. I presented
you to them, never anticipating that I was doing
anything very dangerous to them or to myself,
but I find I was wrong. I don't want to
descend to details, nor inquire how and by what
arts you gained your influence; my case is
simply with the fact that, since you have been
in favour, I have been out of it. My whole
position with them is changed. I can only
suggest now what I used to order, and I have
the pleasure, besides, of seeing that even my
suggestion must be submitted to you and await
your approval."

"Have you finished?" said Loyd, calmly.

"No, far from it! I could make my charge
extend over hours long. In fact, I have only to
review our lives here for the last six or seven
weeks, to establish all I have been saying, and
show you that you owe me an explanation, and
something more than an explanation."

"Have you done now?"

"If you mean, have I said all that I could
say on this subject, no, far from it. You have
not heard a fiftieth part of what I might say
about it."

"Well, I have heard quite enough. My
answer is this, you are totally mistaken; I
never, directly or indirectly, prejudiced your
position. I seldom spoke of you, never
slightingly. I have thought, it is true, that you
assumed towards these ladies a tone of
superiority, which could not fail to be felt by them,
and that the habit grew on you, to an extent
you perhaps were not aware of; as, however,
they neither complained of, nor resented it, and
as, besides, you were far more a man of the
world than myself, and consequently knew better
what the usages of society permitted, I
refrained from any remark, nor, but for your
present charge, would I say one word now on
the subject."

"So, then, you have been suffering in secret
all this time over my domineering and insolent
temper, pitying the damsels in distress, but not
able to get up enough of Quixotism to avenge
them?"

"Do you want to quarrel with me, Calvert?"
said the other, calmly.

"If I knew what issue it would take, perhaps
I could answer you."

"I'll tell you, then, at least so far as I am
concerned, I have never injured, never wronged
you. I have therefore nothing to recal, nothing
to redress, upon any part of my conduct. In
what you conceive you are personally interested,
I am ready to give a full explanation, and this
done, all is done between us."

"I thought so, I suspected as much," said
Calvert, contemptuously. "I was a fool to
suppose you'd have taken the matter
differently, and now nothing remains for me but
to treat my aunt's nursery governess with
greater deference, and be more respectful in the
presence—the august presence—of a lawyer's
clerk."

"Good-by, sir," said Loyd, as he left the
room.

Calvert sat down and took up a book, but
though he read three full pages, he knew nothing
of what they contained. He opened his desk, and
began a letter to Loyd, a farewell letter, a
justification of himself, but done more
temperately than he had spoken; but he tore it up,
and so with a second and a third. As his
passion mounted, he bethought him of his cousin
and her approaching marriage. "I can spoil
some fun there," cried he, and wrote as
follows:

"Lago d'Orta, August 12.
"Dear Sir,—In the prospect of the nearer
relations which a few days more will establish
between us, I venture to address you thus
familiarly. My cousin, Miss Sophia Calvert,
has informed me by a letter I have just received
that she deemed it her duty to place before you
a number of letters written by me to her, at a
time when there subsisted between us a very
close attachment. With my knowledge of my
cousin's frankness, her candour, and her courage
—for it would also require some courage—I am
fully persuaded that she has informed you
thoroughly on all that has passed. We were
both very young, very thoughtless, and, worse
than either, left totally to our own guidance,
none to watch, none to look after us. There is
no indiscretion in my saying that we were both
very much in love, and with that sort of
confidence in each other that renders distrust a crime