"It is," she began, "so delightful to be welcomed by all Gerald's family and friends so heartily. I do not feel the least like a stranger." "I came last night, hoping to join in that welcome," said George. "Oh, I did not feel that you were a stranger at all. Gerald had told me so much about you." George rose, and walked to the end of the little room and back. Then he stood looking down at his hostess. Neaera gazed pensively into the fire. It was uncommonly difficult, but what was the good of fencing? "I saw you recognised me," he said, deliberately. "In a minute. I had seen your photograph." "Not only my photograph, but myself, Mrs. Witt." "Have I?" asked Neaera. "How rude of me to forget! Where was it? Brighton?" George's heart hardened a little. Of course she would lie, poor girl. He didn't mind that. But he did not like artistic lying, and Neaera's struck him as artistic. "But are you sure?" she went on. George decided to try a sudden attack. "Did they ever give you that guinea?" he said, straining his eyes to watch her face. Did she flush or not? He really couldn't say. "I beg your pardon. Guinea?" "Come, Mrs. Witt, we needn't make it more unpleasant than necessary. I saw you recognised me. The moment Mr. Blodwell spoke of Peckton I recognised you. Pray don't think I mean to be hard on you. I can and do make every allowance." Neaera's face expressed blank astonishment. She rose, and made a step towards the bell. George was tickled. She had the amazing impertinence to convey, subtly but quite distinctly, by that motion and her whole bearing, that she thought he was drunk. "Ring, if you like," he said, "or, rather, ask me, if you want the bell rung. But wouldn't it be better to settle the matter now? I don't want to trouble Gerald." "I really believe you are threatening me with something," exclaimed Neaera. "Yes, by all means. Go on." She motioned him to a chair, and stood above him, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece. She breathed a little quickly, but George drew no inference from that. "Eight years ago," he said, slowly, "you employed me as your counsel. You were charged with theft--stealing a pair of shoes--at Peckton Quarter-Sessions. You retained me at a fee of one guinea." Neaera was motionless, but a slight smile showed itself on her face. "What are Quarter-Sessions?" she asked. "You pleaded guilty to the charge, and were sentenced to a month's imprisonment with hard labour. The guinea I asked you about was my fee. I gave it to that fat policeman to give back to you." "Excuse me, Mr. Neston, but it's really too absurd." And Neaera relaxed her statuesque attitude, and laughed light-heartedly, deliciously. "No wonder you were startled last night--oh, yes, I saw that--if you identified your cousin's _fiancée_ with this criminal you're talking about." "I did and do identify her." "Seriously?" "Perfectly. It would be a poor joke."