Camilla paused, either from stress of feeling or inability altogether to say why. Hennion had seen the paragraphs, but had not thought about them. “Well, if you mean it's not just, Milly, I don't suppose Carroll ever bothers about that. There's a good deal of give and take in politics. Aidee has given it pretty sharply himself. I dare say he knows how to take it.” “It's wicked!” cried Camilla passionately. Hennion laughed. “Well--he needn't have called Wood names--that's true.” “If you're going to laugh about it, you can go away!” “'Instigator of crime,' isn't so strong as 'thief,' is it? It's a pity they can't get along without blackguarding each other, but probably they can't.” Camilla turned away. Her indignation was too genuine, and sobered him. “My dear girl! I don't suppose Wood was properly called a 'thief' nor Aidee 'an instigator of crime.' Probably Aidee believes what he says. Probably Carroll hasn't the remotest idea what he believes. What of it? I've been tramping the wilderness of Port Argent all day and seeing visions, Milly, and I'd rather not quarrel. Did Aidee say he was going to do anything in particular?” “He said he was going to see Mr. Hicks.” “What!” “To see Mr. Hicks to-night. Of course he'll go to comfort someone that nobody else will,” cried Camilla breathlessly, “and of course you'll say he'd be wiser to keep away and nurse his reputation, because people will talk. Perhaps you think it proves he's an anarchist, and makes bombs.” “You go too fast for me.” He thought he did not dislike Aidee so much that he would not have stopped his going to see Hicks, if he could. He was not quite clear why he disliked him at all. It was a turn of mind, characteristic of the Hennions, somewhat of the grimly philosophical, which set him to thinking next that Aidee's situation now, in the whitewashed cell with the alias Hicks, must be confusing and not pleasant, that his own situation was vastly more comfortable, and that these, on the whole, were not bad situations. He set himself to the fascinating task of making Camilla's eyes shine with excitement,--but he did not seem to succeed,--over the subject of a moon-shaped Boulevard, strung with parks, like a necklace around a lady's throat. “I worked out that figure of speech for you, Milly. It's a beauty. Port Argent is the lady. A necklace ought to raise her self-respect. She'll have three hundred acres of brooch in the middle called Wabash Park. She's eight miles on the curve from shoulder to shoulder. I walked it today. It struck me she needed washing and drying.” True, Camilla's indignation seemed to fade away. She said, “That's tremendously nice, Dick,” and stared into the fire with absent wistful eyes. He drew nearer her and spoke lower, “Milly.” “No, no! Don't begin on that!” Presently he was striding up Lower Bank Street, hot-hearted with his disappointment. “Well, Port Argent shall have her necklace, anyhow. Maybe I shan't. But I will, though!”