Elizabeth gave a slight cough. The Squire looked at her sharply. 'Oh, you think that's not dignified? Well, have it as you like.' Elizabeth altered the phrase to 'other translators.' The Squire resumed. '"Antinous, one of the suitors, is speaking: 'We could see her working on her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight. She fooled us in this way for three years, and we never found her out, but as time wore on, and she was now in her fourth year, one of her maids, who knew what she was doing, told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it, whether she would or no....' I tell you, we never heard of such a woman; we know all about Tyro, Alcmena, Mycene, and the famous women of old, but they were nothing to your mother--any one of them."--And yet she was only undoing her own work!--she was not forcing a grown man to undo his!' said the Squire, with a sudden rush of voice and speech. Elizabeth looked up astonished. 'Am I to put that down?' The Squire threw away the book he was holding. His shining white hair seemed positively to bristle on his head, his long legs twined and untwined themselves. 'Don't pretend, please, that you don't know what part you've been playing in this affair!' he said with sarcasm. 'It took Forest and me three good hours this morning to take down as fine a barricade as ever I saw put up. I'm stiff with it still. British liberties have been thrown to the dogs--[Greek: gynaikos houneka]--all because of a woman! And there you sit, as though nothing had happened! Yet I chanced to see you just now, coming back with Pamela!' Elizabeth's flush this time dyed her all crimson. She sat, pen in hand, staring at her employer. 'I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Mannering.' At which her conscience whispered to her sharply, 'You guessed it already--in the park!' The Squire jumped to his feet, and came to stand excitedly in front of her, his hands thrust into the high pockets of his waistcoat. 'I am _extremely_ sorry!' he said, with that _grand seigneur_ politeness he could put on when he chose--'but I am not able to credit that statement. You make it honestly, of course, but that a person of your intelligence, when you saw those gates, failed to put two and two together, well!'--the Squire shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, became, in fact, one protesting gesture--'if you ask me to believe it,' he continued, witheringly, 'I suppose I must, but--' 'Mr. Mannering!' said Elizabeth earnestly, 'it would really be kind of you to explain.' Her blush had died away. She had fallen back in her chair, and was meeting his attack with the steady, candid look that betrayed her character. She was now entirely self-possessed--neither nervous nor angry. The Squire changed his tone. Folding his arms, he leant against a pedestal which supported a bust of a Roman emperor.