“It’s a lie!” Amelius shouted. “Perhaps it’s an error of the press,” Rufus persisted. “Perhaps, _you_ kissed _her?”_ “Never mind what I did,” said Amelius savagely. Mr. Hethcote felt it necessary to interfere. He addressed Rufus in his most magnificent manner. “In England, Mr. Dingwell, a gentleman is not in the habit of disclosing these--er--these--er, er--” “These kissings in a wood?” suggested Rufus. “In my country, sir, we do not regard kissing, in or out of a wood, in the light of a shameful proceeding. Quite the contrary, I do assure you.” Amelius recovered his temper. The discussion was becoming too ridiculous to be endured by the unfortunate person who was the object of it. “Don’t let us make mountains out of molehills,” he said. “I did kiss her--there! A woman pressing the prettiest little purse you ever saw into your hand, and wishing you many happy returns of the day with the tears in her eyes; I should like to know what else was to be done but to kiss her. Ah, yes, smooth out your newspaper report, and have another look at it! She _did_ rest her head on my shoulder, poor soul, and she _did_ say, ‘Oh, Amelius, I thought my heart was turned to stone; feel how you have made it beat!’ When I remembered what she had told me in the boat, I declare to God I almost burst out crying myself--it was so innocent and so pitiful.” Rufus held out his hand with true American cordiality. “I do assure you, sir, I meant no harm,” he said. “The right grit is in you, and no mistake--and there goes the newspaper!” He rolled up the slip, and flung it overboard. Mr. Hethcote nodded his entire approval of this proceeding. Amelius went on with his story.