There was a silence, Mr. Palford passed the paper to his partner, who gave it careful study. Afterward he refolded it and handed it back to Miss Alicia. “In a court of law,” was Mr. Palford's sole remark, “it would not be regarded as evidence for the defendant.” Miss Alicia's tears were still streaming, but she held her ringleted head well up. “I cannot stay! I beg your pardon, I do indeed!” she said. “But I must leave you. You see,” she added, with her fine little touch of dignity, “as yet this house is still Mr. Temple Barholm's home, and I am the grateful recipient of his bounty. Burrill will attend you and make you quite comfortable.” With an obeisance which was like a slight curtsey, she turned and fled. In less than an hour she walked up the neat bricked path, and old Mrs. Hutchinson, looking out, saw her through the tiers of flower-pots in the window. Hutchinson himself was in London, but Ann was reading at the other side of the room. “Here's poor little owd Miss Temple Barholm aw in a flutter,” remarked her grandmother. “Tha's got some work cut out for thee if tha's going to quiet her. Oppen th' door, lass.” Ann opened the door, and stood by it with calm though welcoming dimples. “Miss Hutchinson “--Miss Alicia began all at once to realize that they did not know each other, and that she had flown to the refuge of her youth without being at all aware of what she was about to say. “Oh! Little Ann!” she broke down with frank tears. “My poor boy! My poor boy!” Little Ann drew her inside and closed the door. “There, Miss Temple Barholm,” she said. “There now Just come in and sit down. I'll get you a good cup of tea. You need one.” CHAPTER XXXVIII The Duke of Stone had been sufficiently occupied with one of his slighter attacks of rheumatic gout to have been, so to speak, out of the running in the past weeks. His indisposition had not condemned him to the usual dullness, however. He had suffered less pain than was customary, and Mrs. Braddle had been more than usually interesting in conversation on those occasions when, in making him very comfortable in one way or another, she felt that a measure of entertainment would add to his well-being. His epicurean habit of mind tended toward causing him to find a subtle pleasure in the hearing of various versions of any story whatever. His intimacy with T. Tembarom had furnished forth many an agreeable mental repast for him. He had had T. Tembarom's version of himself, the version of the county, the version of the uneducated class, and his own version. All of these had had varying shades of their own. He had found a cynically fine flavor in Palliser's version, which he had gathered through talk and processes of exclusion and inclusion. “There is a good deal to be said for it,” he summed it up. “It's plausible on ordinary sophisticated grounds. T. Tembarom would say, `It looks sort of that way.”'