voice, that might have drawn tears from an audience if he had been the leading man cruelly mistaken for a neighbouring villain, "chère mademoiselle, I did what these canaille accuse me of. Yes, I did it! But they cannot understand why. Only you are high enough to understand. It was—because of my great love for you. All is to be forgiven to such love. Cheerfully, a hundred times over, will I pay for this material damage I have done. I am not poor, except in lacking your love. To gain an opportunity of winning it, to take you from your brutal chauffeur, who is not fit to have delicate ladies trusted to his care, I did what I have done, meaning to lay my car, myself, all that I have and am, figuratively at your feet."
If he had really, instead of "figuratively," I'm sure I couldn't have resisted kicking him, which would have been unladylike. How could I ever have thought he was nice? Ugh! I could have strangled him with his own eyelashes! Brown was right about him, after all. I wonder why it doesn't please one more to find out that other people are right?
"I don't want you to pay," said I. "I only want you to go away."
I've a dim impression that I emphasised these words with a gesture, and that he seized my hand before I could pull it back. I also have a dim impression of exclaiming, "Oh, Brown!" in a frightened voice—just as silly as if I'd been an early-Victorian female. I wished I hadn't, but it was too late. Brown, evoked, was not so easily revoked. A whirlwind seemed to catch Monsieur Talleyrand up, but it was really Brown. They went together to visit a
