"No, Mr Denville, it is not true," cried Mrs Barclay warmly. "Our dear Claire--your dear Claire--is too good a girl, and the wretches who put this about ought to be punished. It is not dear Claire who is believed to be going to-night, but--" "You'll pardon me," cried Denville, turning greyer, and with a curious sunken look about his eyes. "Not a word, please. The scandal is against some one else? I will not hear it, ma'am. Mrs Barclay, I will not know. Life is too short to mix ourselves up with these miserable scandals. I will not wait, Barclay. It is growing late. I shall probably meet my daughter, and take her back. If I do not, and she should come here, might I ask you to see her home?" "Yes, Denville, yes; but, look here, we have something to tell you. Wife, it is more a woman's work. You can do it more kindly than I." "You'll pardon me," said Denville, looking from one to the other, and smiling feebly. "Some fresh story about my daughter? Is it not so, Mrs Barclay?" "Yes, yes, Mr Denville," she whispered; "and you ought to know, though I was going to leave my Jo-si-ah to tell you." "Always good and kind to me and my family, dear Mrs Barclay," said Denville, smiling, and bending over the plump hand he took, to kiss it, with chivalrous respect. "But no--no more tales, my dear madam; the chronicles of Saltinville are too full of scandals. No, no, my dear Mrs Barclay; my unfortunate house can live it down." He drew himself up, took a pinch of snuff with all the refined style and air of the greatest buck of the time, and handed his box to Barclay, who took it, mechanically helped himself noisily, and handed it back. "The old man's half mad," he muttered, as he looked at him. "But Mr Denville," cried Mrs Barclay pleadingly; "you ought to know-- you must know." "Nonsense, madam, nonsense!" cried Denville, with his most artificial manner reigning supreme, as he flicked away a tiny speck of dust from his frill. "We can laugh at these things--we elderly people, and treat them as they deserve." "But, Mr Denville--" "No, dear madam, no; I protest," he continued, almost playfully. "Jo-si-ah, time's flying," cried Mrs Barclay, in a pathetic manner that was absolutely comic. "What _am_ I to say to this man?" "Tell him," said Barclay sternly. "Ah!" ejaculated Mrs Barclay, with a long sigh, as if she shrank from her task. "It must be done. Dear Mr Denville, I don't like telling you, but Mrs Burnett--" Denville reeled, and caught at Barclay's arm. "Hold up, old fellow! Be a man," cried the money-lender, supporting him. The old man recovered himself, and stood up very erect, turning for a moment resentfully on Barclay, as if angry that he should have dared to touch him. Then, looking fiercely at Mrs Barclay: "Hush, ma'am!" he cried. "Shame, shame! How can you--you who are so true and tender-hearted--let yourself be the mouthpiece of this wretched crew?" "But indeed, Mr Denville--"