This question, serenely put, though not without a strong touch of what a woman would have recognised as malice, had the desired effect of startling John Bradfield, as well as of making him very angry. “What--what do you mean?” he asked shortly. “I’ve heard nothing about it. It’s some d--d nonsense somebody’s put into your head, and there’s not a word of truth in it, I’ll be bound.” “My dear John, don’t be angry. Perhaps there is nothing; very likely not. If there had been anything in it, no doubt you would have heard. But as there’s no doubt she’s carrying on a correspondence with someone _who does not send his letters by post_, I naturally thought that it must be with someone she thought about rather seriously. I daresay I was wrong. So sorry if I’ve made any mischief!” she added, as if in sudden surprise at the effect of her words. “But really, you know, girls shouldn’t do these things, now should they?” Loud voices were the rule in the house, but Mrs. Graham-Shute was startled by the loudness of her cousin’s angry reply: “It isn’t true!” roared he. “It isn’t true. It’s one of your infernal concoctions of a spiteful woman. I’ll go and ask her.” “My dear John,” cried Maude, without temper, for she could not afford to quarrel with him, “my dear John, just consider a moment? What possible object could I have in saying it if it were not true? I should expose myself to all sorts of horrid things, and really deserve to be called spiteful--and nobody can say that of me, really--if I said a thing like that when it was not true. Can’t you see that for yourself?” But John was blunt to the verge of rudeness. “I can see that somebody’s been telling lies,” he said abruptly, as he turned on his heel, and fought his way back to where Chris was standing near her mother, who, having obtained one of the much-sought-after chairs, was lost to sight in the crowd of guests who had not been so lucky. “Miss Christina!” said John Bradfield, not attempting to hide the fact that he was angry, “I’ve got something to say to you. Is it true that you’re carrying on a correspondence with someone?” Chris turned deadly white, and every spark of animation suddenly left her face. Her mother, who was of necessity so close to her that not a look nor a word could escape her, broke in sharply: “Chris! why don’t you answer? Ask who said such a thing. But of course I know who it was!” And Mrs. Abercarne threw a steely glance towards the spot where Mrs. Graham-Shute’s large head could be seen bobbing amongst the throng, like a cork on a surging sea. Still Chris made no answer, and her mother, suddenly perceiving how white she had grown, grew alarmed. “Why don’t you deny it, child?” she asked in a low voice, quivering with earnestness, as she rose to whisper in her daughter’s ear. The tears were in the girl’s eyes. She turned to her mother, and under the pretence of drawing round her shoulders the China crape shawl which Mrs. Abercarne wore as a wrap, she whispered: