“When was this?” demanded Dorothy of me, interrupting him. Her voice was steady, but the colour had left her face. “About three weeks ago.” “Please be exact, Richard.” “Well, if you must,” said I, “the day was Tuesday, and the time about half an hour after two.” She said nothing for a while, trying to put down an agitation which was beginning to show itself in spite of her effort. As for me, I was almost wishing myself back in the sponginghouse. “Are you sure my father saw you?” she asked presently. “As clearly as you do now, Dolly,” I said. “But your clothes? He might have gone by you in such.” “I pray that he did, Dorothy,” I replied. But I was wholly convinced that Mr. Manners had recognized me. “And--and what did he say?” she asked. For she had the rare courage that never shrinks from the truth. I think I have never admired and pitied her as at that moment. “He said to the footman,” I answered, resolved to go through with it now, “'Give the man a shilling.' That was his Grace's suggestion.” My Lord uttered something very near an oath. And she spoke not a word more until I handed her out in Arlington Street. The rest of us were silent, too, Comyn now and again giving me eloquent glances expressive of what he would say if she were not present; the captain watching her with a furtive praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so beautiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana. But I was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before the house I begged her not to speak to her father of the episode. “Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard,” she answered proudly. “He may have made mistakes, but I feel sure he would never turn you away when you came to him in trouble--you, the grandson of his old friend, Lionel Carvel.” “Why bother over matters that are past and gone? I would have borne an hundred such trials to have you come to me as you came to-day, Dorothy. And I shall surely see you again,” I said, trying to speak lightly; “and your mother, to whom you will present my respects, before I sail for America.” She looked up at me, startled. “Before you sail for America!” she exclaimed, in a tone that made me thrill at once with joy and sadness. “And are you not, then, to see London now you are here?” “Are you never coming back, Dolly?” I whispered; for I feared Mr. Marmaduke might appear at any moment; “or do you wish to remain in England always?” For an instant I felt her pressure on my hand, and then she had fled into the house, leaving me standing by the steps looking after her. Comyn's voice aroused me.