“There are many debts due to him. I have cancelled them all. They are all due from persons of your great world. He thought their suffrages worth buying. I do not. And I think the people who sell oranges and apples in the streets are superior to those who sell their prestige, their patronage, or their company.” Hurstmanceaux winced as he heard her, like a high-mettled horse flicked with the whip. “I am wholly of your opinion,” he said coldly. “But in this instance the debt is paid so far as a debt ever can be; and you are bound to take the payment of it. You are not bound to preserve silence on the matter, but if you do so you will make me grateful.” “I have told you that you may be certain of my silence,” she said, with some impatience. “That is elementary honor which even I, low-born as I am, can understand!” “Honor does not require silence of you,” said Hurstmanceaux. “But such silence will be a charity to us.” “Call it what you will,” she replied curtly, “you may count on it.” “If you are a gentlewoman, madam,” he added, in his coldest and most courteous manner, “you must also understand that you render my position insupportable unless you accept that money.” She did not immediately reply. She had not thought of the matter from his point of view. She reflected a little while, not looking at him, then she said, briefly: “Very well. It shall be as you wish.” “I thank you,” he said, with embarrassment; and after a pause added, “I thank you exceedingly.” Then he bowed distantly, and left her without any additional words. She sat in the same place for many minutes looking out over the grey sea which gleamed between the stems of the pines. Then she rose and went to a dispatch-box, in which she had placed all his sister’s letters to her father, all proof of sums received by her, and all William Massarene’s counterfoils of checks passed to her, and also the worthless bills of Cocky. She put all these together in a large envelope, sealed it carefully, and sent it registered to the Duchess of Otterbourne at the post office of Bergen, where she knew that the steam-yacht in which that lady had gone to Norway was at anchor. She thus put it out of her own power for ever, and out of the power of any who might come after her, to prove the shame of Hurstmanceaux’s best-beloved sister. “He will never be dishonored through us,” she thought. The voice of her mother startled her and jarred on her. “That’s a handsome man as is gone out just now,” said Mrs. Massarene. “’Tis the duchess’s brother, ain’t it?” Katherine assented. “He’s his sister’s good looks,” said Mrs. Massarene. “But he never would know poor William. May one ask what he come about, my dear?” “Only some business of his sister’s,” replied her daughter. “He was always mighty high,” said Mrs. Massarene. “I hope you’re stand off too. Let him feel as you’re your father’s daughter.” Katherine shuddered in the warm, pine-scented, sea-impregnated air.