She turned and saw upon his face an amused smile, half triumphant yet good-humored. She lowered her eyes to the bronze ornament on the table that was slowly revolving between her fingers. “Am I so incapable of believing good of others?” “Certainly not! But when I saw you last I suffered from an unpleasant belief that neither the Devil nor myself were objects of your adoration. So I took the liberty of putting one or two things together, and decided that the faithful Bennett might have honored me by a mention.” “Why suspect Mr. Bennett of such a thing?” “Well, partly because he is a vindictive and unscrupulous liar, and partly because he is the only enemy I saw there.” This was said gently, in his usual low voice, with perfect calmness, and it was said amiably, as if sympathizing with an unfortunate friend. “You seem able to meet him on his own ground.” “Oh, no! There is all the difference in the world.” She looked toward him interrogatively, but with an expression that plainly indicated a difference of opinion. He continued in the same tone, with no sign of animosity: “The difference is this, that he tells others what he never tells me. I tell others his mind is filthy and his spirit is mean; that he is without honor and that he is a liar, but I also tell _him_.” “You have told him that?” “Often: sometimes to himself alone, sometimes in the presence of others.” She could not restrain a smile. “It must be a pleasant thing to tell a man!” “A man? Oh, that would be a different matter!” There was a barbaric simplicity in all this that she could not help respecting, particularly as she felt he was telling the truth: and she sympathized with him heartily in this opinion of Horace Bennett. While openly unforgiving and vindictive, he appeared to regard his enemy with the half-serious contempt of a gentle but experienced philosopher. But she remembered her resolution. “Mr. Fettiplace has been telling us about that white jacket. What an interesting story!” “Yes, everything he tells is interesting. He has a rare faculty in that direction.” “But in this case he had an unusual subject. It is like a fairy story. I suppose you wore it some time or other?” “I suppose so.” “But you must remember.” “Vaguely. I was only seven years old when I came to this country and I never wore it here.” “Have you even forgotten how you spilled the currant jelly down the front?” “Currant jelly?” he repeated, and looked inquiringly toward her. “I have not heard that theory.” “You were the culprit and ought to know. But strawberry is just as bad, I suppose.” After a slight hesitation he answered, “Those are blood-stains.”