"That's a very good answer," James allowed. "I'll only make one comment upon it. You cried out upon the cruelty of the attack. Now if it had been--assume it for the moment--our--well, friend, let us say, why would it have been cruel of him? Shameful, flagrant, audacious, impudent, insolent, all that I can understand. But cruel, Lucy?" Lucy's cheek was upon his shoulder, and she let it stay there, even while she answered. The moment was serious. She must tell him as much as she dared. Certain things seemed out of the question; but something she must tell him. "You see, James," she said, "I think Mr. Urquhart is fond of me--in fact, I'm sure of it--" "Has he told you so?" "Not in so many words--but--" "But in so many other words, eh? Well, pursue." "And I told him that I couldn't possibly join the party--on that account." "Did you tell him it was on that account?" "No," said Lucy, "I didn't; but he understood that. I know he understood it, because he immediately said that if I would come I shouldn't repent it. And I haven't. He has never made me feel uncomfortable. But just now--when I was expecting him--oh, it seemed to me quite horrible--and I was furious with him." "You were indeed. It didn't occur to you that it might have been--well, somebody with more right." Her arm tightened, but she said nothing. The unconscious James went on. "I was wrong. A man has no right to kiss a woman unawares--in the dark. Even if it's his wife. She'll always want to know who it was, and she's bound to find out. And he'll get no thanks for it, either." Then it became necessary for Lucy to thank him. "Mind you, my dear," he told her. "I have no quarrel with Jimmy Urquhart up to now. You say he's in love with you, and I think that he is. I've thought so for some time, and I confess that I didn't relish the idea that he should be out here with us. But since we are in for confessions I'll make one more. If he hadn't been in love with you I don't believe that I should be--as I am now." Lucy laughed--the laugh of a woman rich. "Then I'm very much obliged to him," she said. But Urquhart was harder to convince than James. CHAPTER XX FAIR WARNING Vera Nugent, a brisk woman of the world, with a fondness for vivid clothing and a Spanish air which went oddly with it, took the trouble one fine day to tackle her brother. "Look here, Jimmy," she said as they breasted a mountain pass, "are you quite sure what you are up to with these people?" Urquhart's eyes took a chill tinge--a hard and pebbly stare. "I don't know what you mean," he said. "Men always say that, especially when they know very well. Of course I mean the Macartneys. You didn't suppose I was thinking of the Poplolly?" The Poplolly, I regret to say, was Francis Lingen, whom Vera abhorred. The term was opprobrious, and inexact. But Urquhart shrouded himself in ice. "Perhaps you might explain yourself," he said.