Lily looked about to find the cause of collapse in her escort’s talk, and saw the man’s peculiar look at Helen, whom she knew by sight. She accounted for his confusion at once, but the blush that came to the young Miss Phillips’ cheek and her evident self-consciousness were so unaccountable as to be puzzling. She searched Hayward’s face keenly for an explanation of his young mistress’s behaviour—and he did not bear the scrutiny with entire nonchalance. Lily felt insulted in a way. "I hope she will know us next time she sees us," she said snappishly. No answer from Hayward; though he felt like a traitor for letting the implied criticism go unchallenged. "You must hurry and get your commission. It seems to disturb the fine lady to see her footman enjoy the privileges of a gentleman. No doubt she thinks it impertinent for a servant to deal in gallant speeches at all, especially such a beautiful sentiment as she must have heard you speaking." Lily had hit the mark in the centre—but of course she did not know it. That finely turned sentiment which he had thrown out with such impromptu grace and rhetorical finish was taken word for word from his last letter to his wife, and he had puzzled his brain for an hour in the choosing and setting of the dozen words in which it sparkled. There was nothing particularly personal in that dozen words, but how was Helen to know but that they had been strung upon the same thread in the man’s conversation with his unknown companion as they were in the letter lying at that moment upon her own bosom. Hayward did not enjoy the afternoon with Lily. He had hoped Helen had not heard what he was saying, but Lily’s statement of opinion that she had heard seemed to put the matter beyond doubt. He came home quite disturbed in mind. He debated to himself whether to write to Helen or wait for her answer to his last letter. He decided not to plead till he was accused. With the next morning came—no letter. Night—no letter. Another morning—no letter. He wrote: "Why do you not write to me—and why is your face so cold?" The answer came: "Who is that woman? She is not your sister—for your sister would not look at you like that—no, nor would you look at your sister like that—nor would you say such a speech to your sister. Who is she? And what right has such a woman, what right has any woman to hear what your letters have said to me? That sentiment is mine—you gave it to me. It is mine, _mine_—do you understand?—and you take it and fritter it away on that—who is she? Keep away from her."