Stanhope quakes inwardly, and the perspiration starts out under his mask. It is very delightful, under most circumstances, to be embraced by a pair of soft feminine arms, but just now it is very embarrassing and--very ridiculous. Divided between his desire to laugh and his wish to run away, the detective stands hesitating, while Winnie French, for she it is, begins a critical examination of his costume. "Don't you think the dress muffles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee? If it were snugger here,"--giving him a little poke underneath his elbows,--"and not so straight from the shoulders. Why didn't you shorten it in front, and wear pointed shoes?" And she seizes the flowing drapery, and draws it back to illustrate her suggestion. Again Stanhope recoils with a gesture which the gay girl misinterprets, and, quite ignoring the persistent silence of the supposed Mrs. Follingsbee, she chatters on: [Illustration: "Don't you think your dress muffles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee?"--page 94.] "I hope you don't resent _my_ criticisms, Follingsbee; you've picked _me_ to pieces often enough. Or are you still vexed because I _won't_ fall in love with your favorite Alan? There, now,"--as Stanhope, grown desperate, seems about to speak,--"I know just what you want to say, and you need not say it. Follingsbee," lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, "if I ever _had_ a scrap of a notion of that sort, I have been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I know he's your prime favorite, but you can't tell _me_ anything about Alan; I've got him all catalogued on my ten fingers. Here he is pro and con; pro's _your_ idea of him, you know. You say he is rich. Well, that's something in these days! He's handsome. Bah! a man has no business with beauty; it's woman's special prerogative. He came of a splendid blue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is American _rubbish_. He's talented. Well, that's only an accident for which _he_ deserves no credit. He's thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he's _too_ bolt upright for me." "So," murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, "I am making a point in personal history, but--it's a tight place for me!" And as Winnie's arms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feels tempted to retort in kind. "Now, then," resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing her victim to check off her "cons" on the pretty right hand; "here's _my_ opinion of Mr. Warburton. He's _proud_, ridiculously proud. He worships his _name_, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving. He's _hard-hearted_. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate him utterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference, impossible to resent and horrible to endure,--and all because he chooses to believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking it for love of the Warburton fortune instead of the race."