This brought her up again with an angry flush. "What has he got to do with it?" "Well, he played it rather low down on you, didn’t he?" "What d’you mean?" "Oh, he fired you." "He didn’t! I left of my own accord." Fancy’s lie came impetuously. "Did you know that he’s after Miss Payson, now?" "So I’ve heard." "You’re remarkably amiable about it, my dear. You didn’t really care for him, then?" His smile was unendurable. "I never explain. If people can’t understand without explanations, they never can with them." "Then you don’t mind it at all?" he insisted. "No—I don’t mind it. I’m glad." The words came from her slowly, this time. "What d’you mean?" Fancy was silent. "Well, don’t you think he ought to be—shown up a little?" He was on his third cup of _saké_, but his hand was as steady as ever. Her lips parted, and her breath came suddenly for an exclamation, but the protest got no further than her eyes. She dropped them to the table-cloth, where she marked crosses with her little finger-nail. Dougal was making overt attempts to attract her attention and the diversion was maddening. "What d’you mean?" she asked. "If you were really a good enough friend of mine to help me out—" "Oh, I’ll help you out, Blan; what d’you want me to do?" she said quite eagerly, now. He did not notice her suppressed excitement. "Well—I suppose you know a good deal about him?" She nodded wisely. "And some things, I suppose, might make considerable difference if they came out? You know what I mean." "Do you want me to tell them?" she flung fiercely at him. He took alarm, and, reaching across the table, attempted to touch her hand. She evaded him. "Of course I don’t want you to do anything dishonorable—but—you said yourself she was a thoroughbred—do you think it’s quite the square thing to stand by and let a man like him marry a nice girl like Miss Payson?" "I thought you said she was supercilious!" "No, super-civilized, that’s all. Call it statuesque. But all the same I hate to see her get stung—don’t you, now? Come!" He leaned back and folded his arms. "She’s too haughty for you, I thought!" "Did I say that? Well, I’m a friend of the family, you know—I want to do what I can for them." She reached nervously for her wine-glass, and her hand, trembling, struck the chianti flask and tipped it over. Before she could set it straight it had spilled into a plate, drenching a napkin which lay partly folded there. The linen was turned blood red. Cayley laughed at her carelessness loudly. Dougal looked across again, but Fancy avoided his eye. "Blan," she said, leaning slightly towards him and speaking low, "do you love me? Or are you just playing with me?" He seemed to consider it. Then he said, very earnestly, and evidently with a subtle psychological intent, "I’m only playing with you, Fancy!" And he smiled. Her fingers drummed on the table. "But I’ll never treat you the way Granthope did," he added.