“You seem to rather approve of her conduct,” he said. “Certainly I have to thank you for your speech, though, candidly speaking, neither I, nor I believe anyone else, could make head or tail of it” (he spoke in a genuinely puzzled voice), “and for various other things I have to thank you; but in the matter of dealing with this woman, I beg you will not interfere.” “Yes,” said Mr. Barringcourt, in a low, clear voice, “I shall interfere. The Serpent is like everything else. It can’t afford to get too much talked about, or its reputation’s gone. If you prosecute her, you make yourself and it the laughing-stock of Lucifram.” “I uphold its sacredness and sanctity.” “Cant and tomfoolery! You say I made a speech last night you didn’t understand—and I didn’t take the pains to understand it myself. But if you persist in this, I’ll make another before long which will appeal to everyone, and tread on no general corns at all, but that of the individual.” “You are in a quarrelsome mood to-night.” “Yes. I’ve been in the society of priests all day, and they weary me.” The other laughed. “That’s a hint to me. However, for the present you may have your way, but I tell you candidly, if there’s any hubbub made, I bring her to trial.” Then he went away; but walking along the silent streets he said: “Barringcourt’s as spoilt as a child. Cross him in the least thing, and he’s inside out in no time. Yet in some whimsical, flimsical kind of way he’s been the best friend I’ve had, and helped on considerably the present affairs. All the same, that girl shall suffer. The thing to do in this world is to teach people to keep their tongues still. It’s three parts the battle of life.” And Mr. Barringcourt, left to himself, stood a long time looking into the rekindled fire, which tells so much to those who read it properly. And his face betokened more weariness and contempt than even in the past years, and the lines of his features were finer. “Revenge first; thanks a very doubtful second,” he said at length, and then went off to the stables. All through the blackness of the night the black steeds galloped, and some mistook their dusky forms for passing clouds, and their wild eyes for distant stars, and the rhythm of their feet for the rumbling wind. That night, as Rosalie slept, the frog left its customary place on the washing-stand, and came close to her ear. And though all the room beyond was dark, the light round her head and pillow was very white and pure. All the things the frog whispered it would be unfair to say, for the frog was working for its own ends, as most of us do, and therefore coloured things to its own liking. Rosalie woke in the morning, and looked at the deceitful frog, now sitting on the washing-stand, and said: “I’ve been dreaming that a tiny little angel came and sang to me and laughed. And though I can’t remember one word of what it said, I know that everything was very pleasant—so that many a time I found that I was laughing too.”