“Oh, now, Mr. Hawkins, you _can’t_ go that far. A body _can’t_ really know it, you know. It isn’t _proved_ that he’s not what he says he is.” Should he come out and make a clean breast of the whole wretched business? Yes—at least the most of it—it ought to be done. So he set his teeth and went at the matter with determination, but purposing to spare the girl one pain—that of knowing that Tracy was a criminal. “Now I am going to tell you a plain tale; one not pleasant for me to tell or for you to hear, but we’ve got to stand it. I know all about that fellow; and I _know_ he is no earl’s son.” The girl’s eyes flashed, and she said: “I don’t care a snap for that—go on!” This was so wholly unexpected that it at once obstructed the narrative; Hawkins was not even sure that he had heard aright. He said: “I don’t know that I quite understand. Do you mean to say that if he was all right and proper otherwise you’d be indifferent about the earl part of the business?” “Absolutely.” “You’d be entirely satisfied with him and wouldn’t _care_ for his not being an earl’s son,—that _being_ an earl’s son wouldn’t add any value to him?” “Not the least value that I would care for. Why, Mr. Hawkins, I’ve gotten over all that day-dreaming about earldoms and aristocracies and all such nonsense and am become just a plain ordinary nobody and content with it; and it is to _him_ I owe my cure. And as to anything being able to add a value to him, nothing can do that. He is the whole world to me, just as he is; he comprehends _all_ the values there are—then how can you _add_ one?” “She’s pretty far gone.” He said that to himself. He continued, still to himself, “I must change my plan again; I can’t seem to strike one that will stand the requirements of this most variegated emergency five minutes on a stretch. Without making this fellow a criminal, I believe I will invent a name and a character for him calculated to disenchant her. If it fails to do it, then I’ll know that the next rightest thing to do will be to help her to her fate, poor thing, not hinder her.” Then he said aloud: “Well, Gwendolen—” “I want to be called Sally.” “I’m glad of it; I like it better, myself. Well, then, I’ll tell you about this man Snodgrass.” “Snodgrass! Is _that_ his name?” “Yes—Snodgrass. The other’s his nom de plume.” “It’s hideous!” “I know it is, but we can’t help our names.” “And that is truly his real name—and not Howard Tracy?” Hawkins answered, regretfully: “Yes, it seems a pity.” The girl sampled the name musingly, once or twice— “Snodgrass. Snodgrass. No, I could not endure that. I could not get used to it. No, I should call him by his first name. What is his first name?” “His—er—his initials are S. M.” “His initials? I don’t care anything about his initials. I can’t call him by his initials. What do they _stand_ for?”