Over the little summer-house hung the sweet beauties of the serene night. About it stretched the calm lawn in chequers of large faint brightness and gigantic shadows. Within it stood the tall stranger, rooted in his tracks. Then it seemed to occur to him that there was some misunderstanding; that at least, in his anxiety about his friend, he hadn't allowed sufficiently for the properly outraged feelings of the lady--this so unreasonable-looking daughter of Mr. Heth of the Works, or his niece.... "It's all tremendously trying for you, I know," he said, with the same sort of gentleness. "I assure you the situation has distressed me greatly--from every aspect. And I think it's most kind and--and generous of you to let me speak with you when you must feel that you've been so badly treated.... But you see--as it stands, you are involved in it, really, more than any one else. I'm sorry, but in fact the whole issue is in your hands." "I can't see that. He has given you his--his version of what took place. No one will prevent him from saying the same thing to whomever he wishes." "But who will believe him?" Carlisle perceived a rhetorical question, though she didn't know it under that name; she made no reply. She would really have preferred no more questions of any sort--what was the use of them? In her, as in all the Maker's creatures, the instinct for self-preservation was planted to work resistlessly. Small wonder, indeed, if, in the unexpected discovery that dependence on Dalhousie's dubious gentlemanliness was unnecessary, the uprush of relief should have swept away all lesser considerations, flooded down all doubts. All was settled again in a trice, as by a miracle: the miraculous agent here being, not the Deity (as she vaguely suspected), but only the Demon Rum, he who had taught the frail lad Dalhousie to be so mistrustful of himself ... She had had a harassing day, including three momentous _tête-à-têtes_ with three different and widely variegated men, mostly comparative strangers: Jack Dalhousie, Mr. Canning, and now this Mr. Vivian. She was very tired of being dogged and nagged at and interfered with, and she wanted very much to terminate this interview, which she saw now had been extorted from her by a pretty sharp piece of deception. And through her mind there skipped a beckoning thought of Mr. Canning, conceived as feverishly pacing the piazza ... "You see, his defence," Mr. Vivian was saying, with some signs of nervousness, "is merely his own word that he had no idea you were upset. I believe him absolutely, because I know he wouldn't lie, and he admits, to his own disadvantage, that his memory isn't at all clear. But--it's all so muddled and confused somehow--I'm afraid everybody else will think that a rather silly fabrication, invented by a desperate man to put himself in the best light possible. That is--unless his word is corroborated." His inflection invited remarks, nay, urged them, but there was only silence.