“Well! you are damned particular!” exclaimed his cousin, “one would think this little half-caste was a princess of the Blood Royal. What is she, when all’s said and done? The daughter of a mulatto and a man who made himself so detested that he was murdered by his own servants--the bastard of a----” “Stop!” cried Pennell, so vehemently that the passers-by turned their heads to look at him, “I don’t believe it, and if it is true, I do not wish to hear it! Miss Brandt may be all that you say--I am not in a position to contradict your assertions--but to me she represents only a friendless and unprotected woman, who has a right to our sympathy and respect.” “A friendless woman!” sneered Captain Pullen, “yes! and a doosid good-looking one into the bargain, eh, my dear fellow, and much of your sympathy and respect she would command if she were ugly and humpbacked. O! I know you, Pennell! It’s no use your coming the benevolent Samaritan over me! You have an eye for a jimper waist and a trim ancle as well as most men. But I fancy your interest is rather thrown away in this quarter. Miss Brandt has a thorny path before her. She is a young lady who will have her own way, and with the glorious example of the Baroness the way is not likely to be too carefully chosen. To tell the truth, old boy, I ran away because I was afraid of falling into the trap. The girl wishes intensely to be married, and she is not a girl whom men will marry, and so--we need go no further. Only, I should not be surprised if, notwithstanding her fortune and her beauty, we should find Miss Harriet Brandt figuring before long, amongst the free lances of London.” “And you would have done your best to send her there!” replied Anthony Pennell indignantly, as he stopped on the doorstep of his Piccadilly chambers. “But I am glad to say that your folly has been frustrated this time, and Miss Brandt sees you as you are! Good-night!” and without further discussion, he turned on his heel and walked upstairs. “By Jove!” thought Ralph, as he too went on his way, “I believe old Anthony is smitten with the girl himself, though he has only seen her once! That was the most remarkable thing about her--the ease with which she seemed to attract, looking so innocent all the while, and the deadly strength with which she resisted one’s efforts to get free again. Perhaps it is as well after all that I should not meet her. I don’t believe I could trust myself, only speaking of her seems to have revived the old sensation of being drawn against my will--hypnotised, I suppose the scientists would call it--to be near her, to touch her, to embrace her, until all power of resistance is gone. But I do hope old Anthony is not going to be hypnotised. He’s too good for that.” Meanwhile Pennell, having reached his rooms, lighted the gas, threw himself into an armchair, and rested his head upon his hands. “Poor little girl!” he murmured to himself. “Poor little girl!”