"It's notorious," the high voice proclaimed. "She tried to pass as the wife of _the_ Allonby, the 'Storm and Stress' man, and took everybody in till I asked her straight out one day, and caught her on the hop. She was so taken aback that she let out she was not his wife at all--only a connexion by marriage. And I don't believe she's even that, or Mrs. Allonby at all, or Mrs. Anybody. Miss Nobody-in-particular, _I_ should say. They ought to be more careful who they take in at these small hotels. Fast? _Rather_. A regular Monty harpy; lives on the tables, they say. That poor young Isidore is infatuated--absolutely. It's the talk of the hotel. She scarcely lets him out of her sight. One is always stumbling upon the pair--looking unutterable things at each other. Quite unpleasant for us. Pretty? That sort always are. But as for manners, and good breeding--well, anything goes down with foreigners and silly old owls like Welbourne. You know she has broken off Isidore's engagement." The fair being who originated these remarks, having her face slightly turned to her companion, had not observed the presence of the two men screened by the bend of the bank on which they sat. Nor would the younger man have given a thought to these two ladies, but for the effect they produced upon his companion, who started and listened with blazing eyes and tense interest to every word that rang out on the still air. Not content with hearing what was said in passing, he rose, as if drawn by the voice, and followed the quick English steps, quickly outpacing them. Then, planting himself in front of the two ladies and raising his broad felt hat, he brought them to a standstill. "I have heard," he said, addressing the speaker in slow, distinct French, "every word in the clear and accurate voice of Madame, and venture to suggest that it is a perilous thing to speak English in this country, unless you wish to be heard, English being now so generally understood, even when not spoken." "Much obliged," returned Dorris sharply, meaning to pass on; "but it's nothing to me whether people hear what I say or not." "Pardon me," he replied, barring her progress. "It may be much to you; it is a serious matter in this country to speak slander in public; it may have very grave consequences for you." "Nonsense; I don't understand French--je ne comprends pas," she muttered hastily and brokenly, looking round as if for protection. Then, perceiving the younger man, "Mr. Paul," she cried piteously, "Mr. Paul." "That is my name," he admitted, rising and raising his hat, but not approaching. "Mr. Paul fully agrees with me upon the danger of speaking slanderous things in public," said the Pole coolly, in English. "It's no slander," she protested; "let me go. We were going to see the review." "Let us pass on; you have no right to stop people you don't know," shouted the other lady in a shaky voice.