A moment’s silence ensued, and then you spoke again: “Perhaps there was a motive that explains it. Please don’t reply, if it is a question I ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week I feel as if you had given me the privilege to ask it. I have always thought—or rather hoped—that you cared for Agnes? If”— “And so you married me to her in the novel,” I interrupted, in an effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. You laughed merrily as you said, “Oh, I’m so glad you spoke of that. I have often wondered if you recognized the attempted portrait,—which now I know is not a bit of a likeness,—and have longed to ask you. I never should have dared to sketch it, but I thought my pen name would conceal my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! I never suspected you were the publisher’s reader. What have you thought of me?” “That you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. My true sympathy, however, went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer for my earlier attachment.” “I’m thankful we are in the shadow,” you laughed, “so that my red cheeks don’t show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge.” “That was the last thought in my mind.” “Then, my woman’s curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous and spare my absurd blushes. I don’t know when I have been made to feel so young and foolish.” “Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers glory in their shame.” “Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded better.” “You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your maiden experiment.” “Did I not? And yet—You see I recognized potentialities for loving in you. You can—Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. Did you—were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy for the daytime?” “Yes,” I confessed guiltily, “but”— “No, don’t dare to try to explain it away,” you ordered. “How could you say it? We can never be friends, after all.” Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: “You will forgive me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. Polhemus’s at you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not choose to treat her gibe seriously. I hoped it would not come back to you.” “Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that remark! You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my libel was never published. Yet you are unblushing.” We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: “You interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed diversion? You see,” you added hastily, “I am presuming that henceforth we are to be candid.”