"There," he said, gravely, "is the original of the Woods Eagle--the Eagle that intimidates us all. Do you remember what Shakespeare--one always harks back to Shakespeare to clinch an argument, because not even our foremost actors have been able to conceal the fact that he was, as somebody in Dickens acutely points out, 'a dayvilish clever fellow'--do you remember. I say, what Shakespeare observes as to this very Eagle?" Miss Hugonin shook her little head till it glittered in the sunlight like a topaz. She cared no more for Shakespeare than the average woman does, and she was never quite comfortable when he was alluded to. "He says," Mr. Kennaston quoted, solemnly: "The Eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wing He can at pleasure still their melody." "That's nonsense," said Margaret, calmly. "I haven't the _least_ idea what you're talking about, and I don't believe you have either." He waved the dollar bill with a heroical gesture. "Here," he asserted, "is the Eagle. And by the little birds, I have not a doubt he meant charity and independence and kindliness and truth and the rest of the standard virtues. That is quite as plausible as the interpretation of the average commentator. The presence of money chills these little birds--ah, it is lamentable, no doubt, but it is true." "I don't believe it," said Margaret--quite as if that settled the question. But now his hobby, rowelled by opposition, was spurred to loftier flights.