"And perhaps she gave them to you as a keep-sake?" was the next question. Here, indeed, he was startled; and she noticed it; and laughed a little. "No, I am not a witch," she said. "All that has happened before now: do you think you are the first? Why, I’m sure, now, you’ve worn those beads next your heart, in the daytime, and made yourself very uncomfortable; yes, and you’ve tried wearing them at night, and couldn’t sleep because they hurt you. Never mind, I will tell you what to do: get them made into a watch chain, with small gold links connecting the beads; and when you wear it with evening dress, every woman will recognise it as a love-gift—every one of them will say ’A girl gave him that.’" "Perhaps I might not wish to make a display of it," said Vincent. "Then you’re in the first stage of inconstancy," said she, promptly. "If you’re not madly anxious that the whole world should know you have won her favour, then you’ve taken the first step on the downward road to indifference; you are regarding certain things as bygone, and your eyes are beginning to rove elsewhere. Well, why not? It’s the way of the world. It’s human nature. At the same time I want to hear some more about the young lady of the sandal-wood necklace." "I have told you more than I intended," he answered her. "You haven’t told me anything: I guessed for myself." "Well, now, I am going to ask your advice," said he—for how could he tell but that this bright, alert, intrepid person, with her varied experience of the world, might be able to help him? She was far different from Maisrie, to be sure; different as night from day; but still she was a woman; and she might perhaps be able to interpret a nature wholly alien from her own. So she sate mute and attentive, and watching every expression of his face, while he put before her a set of imaginary circumstances. It was not his own story; but just so much of it as might enable her to give him counsel. And he had hardly finished when she said— "You don’t know where to find her; and yet you have never thought of a means of bringing her to you at once?" "What means?" said he. "Why, it is so simple!" she exclaimed. "Have you no invention? But I will tell you, then. As soon as you land in New York, get yourself knocked over by a tram-car. The accident to the rich young Englishman who has just arrived in America will be in all the papers, and will lose nothing in the telling. Your father’s name is known; you have recently been elected a member of Parliament; they will make the most of the story—and of course you needn’t say your life is _not_ in danger. Then on the wings of love the fair one comes flying; flops down by the side of your bed, in tears; perhaps she would even consent to a marriage—if you were looking dreadfully pale; then you could get well again in double quick time—and live happy ever after."