“I hope you don’t regret your experiment,” he repeated. “It would have been simpler, perhaps, if your father had mentioned that you were friends of Mr. Linkhaw’s. That in itself would have been an ample introduction.” “Perhaps we should have done so, had you been alone.” Her tone was cool to the verge of haughtiness. He rapidly considered what this might mean. Her remark clearly indicated that Vestalia’s presence had seemed to her reprehensible. Why? There was some intricacy here which he could not fathom. That confounded Drumpipes had told her--what? Eureka! He had it! The picture that she had seen was a little cheap ambrotype of Drumpipes and himself, standing together, which had been made by a poor devil of a wayside photographer, two Derby days before. Undoubtedly that was what the Earl had shown her--the only one he could have shown her. And--why of course--Drumpipes had pointed him, David, out as the Earl. What his motive could have been, heaven only knew, but this was palpably the key to the riddle. He grasped this key with decision, on the instant. He straightened himself, frowned a little, and laboriously stiffened the tell-tale muscles about his mouth. “I don’t think I quite like this notion of Linkhaw’s babbling about me and my affairs,” he said, with austerity. “Oh, I assure you,” she protested, anxiously, “he was very cautious. He only gave the most sparing answers to my questions. I had to literally drag things from him.” “But what business had he showing my picture about to begin with? He shall hear what I think of it! Men’s allowances have been stopped for less than that.” “It will be very unjust indeed if you visit it upon him,” the girl urged, almost tremulously; “it was all my fault. I asked him one day if he had ever met a nobleman, and he, quite as a matter of course, mentioned that one of his own relatives was an Earl. One day, later, he was showing me a little tin-type of himself, and he merely said that you were the other person in the picture, that was all.” “And then you proceeded to drag things from him. I believe that was your phrase,” remarked David, in a severe tone. The sensation of having this proud and insolent beauty in a tremor of entreaty before him was very delightful. “Naturally, I asked him questions,” she replied, with a little more spirit. “Earls don’t grow on every bush with us. And for that matter, why, goodness me! he did nothing but praise you from morning till night. By his account, one would think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. He made you out a regular saint. I was quite prepared to see you with a halo round your head--and instead, I----” She stopped short, with a confused and deprecatory smile. David, noting it, rejoiced that he had taken a peremptory tone about the garrulous Linkhaw.