“What you and I are going to do now,” said my Lady. She smoothed her ruffled hair, folded her stained kerchief and slipped it into her bag; rose, and looked down smiling once more at the man, her fine nostrils fluttering with her quick breath in a way that gave a singular expression of mocking cruelty to her face. “Lochore saved Sir David from marrying beneath him.” “And how did he accomplish that?” asked the colonel, rising too. There was now a faint flutter of curiosity in his breast The reasons for Sir David’s eccentricity had once been much discussed. Lady Lochore took two steps down the path, then looked back over her shoulder. “In the simplest way in the world,” she answered. “He gave a greedy child an apple, while my simpleton of a brother was solemnly forging a wedding ring.” “Why”—the colonel stared, then laughed—“my Lady,” said he “these are strange counsels! Why—absurd! How could I think the plump, pretty Phyllis would as much as blink at an old fogey like me. And, as for me——” Again Lady Lochore turned her head and looked long and fully at the speaker. “Oh, Tony!” she said slowly at last. “Tony, Tony!” Colonel Harcourt tried in vain to present a set face of innocence; the self-conscious smile of the gratified _roué_ quivered on his lips. He broke into a sudden loud laugh and wagged his head at her. She dropped her eyelids for a second to shut out the sight. “And she bit into the apple?” asked the colonel, presently. “With all her teeth, my dear friend. Heavens! isn’t the world’s history but one long monotonous repetition? With us Eves, everything depends upon the way the fruit is offered. And that is why, I suppose, it is seldom Adam and his legitimate orchard that tempts us. Reflect on that, Tony.” With this fleer, and a careless forbidding motion of her hand, she left him standing and looking after her. There was a mixture of admiration and distrust in his eyes. “By George, what a woman!” said he. “Gad, I’m glad I am not her Adam, anyhow!” Then his glance grew veiled, as it fixed itself upon an inward thought, and a slow complacent smile crept upon his face. CHAPTER III STRAWS ON THE WIND ... I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat.... —MILTON (_Samson Agonistes_). “I never heard you, my dear Doctor, preach better!” said Madam Tutterville.