“Oh! this gentleman,” she answered with the malicious fury of a child, bent only on hurting if she could. “He--he comes to see a little sick boy next door to--to us, and he gives him medicine that makes him worse. I know it does. Last night he took some, and this morning he is worse than ever. Quacks are all alike.” Thus Marigold--with the instant reaction so that she could have hated St Armand too for his smooth question, and she felt the utter punishment of meanness; her eyes were fastened to the ground, she dare not raise them. Yet she kept saying to herself: “He hurt me, and he had no business to. Why should I not hurt him back?” And the sun still shone--shadows and white patches. And next she heard Mr Barringcourt’s voice speaking easily and unconcernedly to the High Priest, and therein to her came the greater punishment. “Let us take a walk through the Temple as in the olden times. I should like to see Crockerby’s panels that he was busy on when last I stayed here. He’s been dead near fifteen years, I hear, and he’ll have left a big gap even in this crowded city. He was a man who lived.” “Yes; and along with him went many of the old lot. You’ll find the town altered since you went.” And so together they turned and went away, leaving Marigold open-eyed at the ease with which her--yes, her lover--had deserted her. And suddenly St Armand sprang to his feet with an energy that startled her. “_Damn_ him!” said he, with a force so unnatural that the great tree seemed to creak and groan and sway with it. “Oh, no, no!” said Marigold just as suddenly, her fingers flying up to her tiny ears. “No, no! Damn _it_! Damn it! Don’t damn _him_!” and she kicked a stone flap against the archway. St Armand opened his mouth to answer, then closed it to hide a smile, and looked at the little beggar girl narrowly. “Marigold,” he said at length, very kindly, “do you know what they’re doing in there?” “N--no.” “Talking about you--laughing, most probably. Barringcourt’s fond of laughing--keeps him young.” “I have done nothing to make them laugh,” she said, the sensitive colour rising to her face. “No, you have done nothing, but Barringcourt is jealous--one of his many little weaknesses. The High Priest at one time was his slave, now he bids fair to become yours. That will not please him.” “_Is_ he jealous?” said she, dubious now, though so certain the night before. St Armand frowned. “I tell you he is jealous. He is also jealous of you and the sick baby--sick child.” “How--how do you know about that?” she asked in weak surprise. “I know a great deal,” he answered whimsically; “people’s faces are like books to me.” Then again softly: “Marigold.” “Yes.” “It was intolerable the way he spoke to you--under--under the circumstances.” The colour ran in her cheeks again, and her voice trembled. “Yes, I know it was.” Then suddenly, her head thrown up: “But I--I deserved it.” “For why?”