“No, dear lady, not a coward, but one who enjoys telling the truth, even if it bites and wounds. Will you sell that piece of stone to me?” “Not for the wealth of Vanderbilt,” she replied. “I’d rather give it to a pauper whom I respected, than to sell it to you for enough to buy the golden opinion of all men.” “Such a resolve shows delicate sensibility, artistic temperament, but a minimum of common sense. I saw your--” (here even he could go but little further) “I mean Mr. Nugent, a few days ago, and if you still possess your romantic attachment for him, his pinched cheeks and sunken eyes, would induce you to make some little sacrifice for him.” The interview was becoming beyond endurance to Ouida, when, fortunately, the subject of the latter part of Doane’s talk--Horatio Nugent--entered the room. He had heard the editor’s allusion to sacrifice. “Who are you,” he cried, “that dare talk to her of sacrifice for me? The world should weep for her. She has, upon the altar of her affection for me, sacrificed a glory, which before, no woman had ever achieved upon the American continent.” Doane laughed, and Nugent, growing desperate, crossed over toward him, with threatening attitude. Ouida clung to him, begging him, for their mutual sake to be calm. “Oh, don’t restrain him,” said Doane, provokingly, “he’ll cool down bye and bye.” “Oh, I know you now,” said Nugent, “You are from the upper world, a fair representative of the classes who set themselves up in judgment over common men.” “No,” said Doane, assuming an injured air, “only an editor, whose kindly intent has been met here by rude insult.” “Take your intent and presence away,” said Nugent, “and at once. We want neither. You and your kind stand well in the eyes of the world, but we refuse to bend beneath your judgment.” “Yet,” said the editor, “you set up a tribunal of your own.” “Yes,” said Ouida, “the tribunal of conscience, where we have had our trial, pronounced sentence, and for years have been paying to justice the penalty we owed.” “You refuse my aid?” said Doane. “It was not sought; we will not accept it,” said Nugent. “We prefer starvation to your pity.” “Then,” said Doane, “let it not be pity, but a pure matter of business.” “We desire none with you,” said Ouida. “This lodging is poor, but it is our own. Go, vent your spleen where it may be felt. We are beyond it. We have passed through the vale of agony. No shaft of scorn or ridicule can wound us more. Leave us, we would breathe the untainted air.” And as Doane went away from the presence of his intended victims, it crept through his narrow brain, that he had not accomplished much. “I could not pierce the armor of their pride and devotion. I am an ass,” said Doane to himself, and the next day’s editorials were permeated with great bitterness. CHAPTER XXII. OUIDA’S WELCOME VISITORS. Mr. Connors, while awaiting Doane’s departure from the house of Ouida, happened, accidentally, to brush into Olivia Winters.