"Who interferes with Mr. Temple has to do with me," he shouted. "Fair play, gentlemen. Let them fight it out with fists like men, first--and stick each other afterwards with rapiers like Frenchmen, if they like. Gentlemen, I am Sir Miles Lackington, Baronet, at your service, if any one wants a little breathing." He held his cane in readiness, but the other gentlemen kept aloof. When Harry had spent his rage, because, so far as I can learn, there was no resistance, he shook off his opponent, adjusted his wig, which was a little deranged, and turned quietly to Sir Miles-- "You will oblige me, Sir Miles? Thank you, gentlemen all--your servant." He resumed his walk, lounging among the trees, the women looking after him with a mixture of fright and admiration, as calm as if nothing had happened. The man who was beaten was followed off the field by his friends. Nor could Sir Miles get speech of them that evening. In the morning, when he went to make his murderous appointment, he found they were gone. Fighting, it would seem, was not to their liking; though an insult to a harmless gentleman was quite in their way. "I am sorry, Harry," I said honestly, because a woman cannot help respecting a man who is brave and strong, "that the taking of my name has caused you this trouble." "I am sorry, too," he said sadly. "Yet I blame them not, Kitty." "But you do blame me," I replied. "Harry, if, in a little while--somehow--I am able to show that I could not, even if I wished, grant the thing you want--if--I say--I can make that quite clear and plain to you--will you promise to be reconciled to what cannot--cannot be avoided?" "If, Kitty--what an if? But you ask the impossible. There is no reason--there cannot be. Why, such a thing is impossible." "But again--if--Harry, promise me so much." He laughed grimly. "Well, I promise." "Give me your hand upon it," I said. "Now we shall be friends indeed. Why, you silly Harry, you let the days go by, and you neglect the most beautiful girls who could perhaps make you a hundred times as happy as Kitty, all because you deck her out with imaginary virtues which she doth not possess. Foolish Harry! Open your eyes and look about you. What do you see?" I, for my part, saw pretty Nancy running along the walk to meet us. Love was in her eyes, grace in her action; youth, beauty, sweetness in her comely shape, her rosy cheeks, her pretty smile, her winning tongue, her curly locks. She was in morning dress, without hoop or patch. Through the leaves of the trees the sun shone softly upon her, covering her with a soft light which might have been that in which Venus stole along the shore in a golden mist to meet her son--of which my father had read to me. She was pretty, she was sweet; far prettier than I, who was so tall; far sweeter than I, who was full of evil passions and shame, being a great sinner. "Foolish Harry!" I said. "What do you see?" He only looked me in the face and replied--