"It is not rouge," she said. "I have been thinking of other parties I have attended--and of how these ladies will look at me to-night--and of what they possibly said of me yesterday--and it has been good for me." "It was not so good for them, however," he suggested, regarding her with new interest. Her spirit pleased him; he liked it that she was not ready to allow herself to be beaten down, that she held her head erect and confronted her enemies with resolute eyes; he had a suspicion that there were women enough who would have been timorous and pathetic. "I could not hurt them," she replied. "It would matter very little what I thought or said of them; it is only they who can harm me." "They shall none of them harm you," he said, stoutly. "I will see to that; but I'm glad you are looking your best." But she could not help seeing that he was a trifle anxious about her. His concern manifested itself in occasional touches of half-paternal kindliness which were not lost upon her. He assisted her to put on her wrap, asked her if it was warm enough, ordered her to draw it closely about her, and tucked her under his arm as he led her out to the carriage with an air of determined protection not to be mistaken. Perhaps his own views as to what form of oppression and opposition they were to encounter were rather vague. He was sufficiently accustomed to the opposition of men, but not to that of women; but, whatever aspect it assumed upon this occasion, he was valiantly determined not to be moved by it. "I can't dance with you," he said, "that's true--I wish I could; but I will see that you have plenty of partners." "I don't think the difficulty will be in the partners," Bertha replied, with a faint smile. "The men will not be unkind to me, you will see." "They won't believe it, eh?" said Blundel. Her eyes met his, and the faint smile had a touch of bitterness. "Some of them will not believe it," she answered; "and some will not care."