“A little tiresome sometimes and high-flown. Oh, I see exactly,” Mrs. Pimpernel replied, nodding her head. Too clever for him evidently; men all _hate_ clever women, she said inwardly, with a smile; while Arthur, with a savage desire to cut his own throat, or fly at hers, after his treachery to Clare, got hold of the basket of wools and scattered them wildly about the grass. He broke the basket, and he was glad. It would have been a satisfaction to his mind if he could have trampled upon all the flower-beds, and thrown stones at the windows of the peaceful house. “Oh, Mr. Arden, never mind,” said Alice. “The basket does not matter; it was not a dear basket. Oh, please, never mind. Go on with the Spanish lady. I do want so much to hear.” “It was a Spanish lady, and she loved an Englishman,” said Arthur, making an effort, and resuming his tale. He did not dislike Alice. There was no impulse upon him to fly upon her and shake her, or do anything but be very civil and gentle to the pretty inoffensive girl. In short, he was like all coarse-minded men. The young fresh creature exercised a certain influence over him by reason of her beauty; but the elder woman was simply an inferior being of his own species--a weaker man in disguise, whom he dared not treat as he would a man, and accordingly hated with a double hatred. Mrs. Pimpernel perhaps would scarcely have objected to the sentiment. She had as little refinement of the heart as he had, and was ready to use all the privileges of her sex as weapons of offence to goad and madden with them any man who was any way obnoxious to her. “He knows he cannot take me in. I am not a simpleton to be deceived by his fair talk; and I know he hates me,” she would have said, with real triumph. But in the meantime he was obliged to keep the peace. So he resumed his story. The hour of luncheon was approaching, and after that would come the welcome hour when for three or four days back he had been able to escape from all the Pimpernels. But he did not dare to make his escape that day; and while he told his romantic tale he was painfully contriving how he should manage to send word to Clare, and wondering if she would miss him! It would be a dreary business for himself, giving up the day to croquet and Pimpernels. Would Clare feel the disappointment too? Would the house be lonely to her without him? His heart gave a leap, and he felt for a moment as if he was certain it would be lonely. Curiously, this thought did not sadden but exhilarate his mind; and then he returned anxiously to the question--How could he, without exciting suspicion, have a note sent to Clare?