Miss Smith-Dickenson knew perfectly well how her sister Lilian--the one with the rolling, liquid eyes, now Baroness Porchammer--would have responded. But she herself mistrusting her powers of gushing right, did not feel equal to "Oh, but how nice of you to say so, dear Mr. Pellew!" And she felt that she was not cut out for a satirical puss neither, like her sister Georgie, now Mrs. Amphlett Starfax, to whom a mental review of possible responses assigned, "Oh dear, how complimentary we are, all of a sudden!"--with possibly a heavy blow on the gentleman's fore-arm with a fan, if she had one. So she decided on "Pray go on. You may rely on my discretion." It was simple, and made her feel like Elizabeth in "Pride and Prejudice"--a safe model, if a little old-fashioned. The gentleman pulled at his cigar in a considerative way, and said in a perfunctory one:--"I am sure I may." Nevertheless, he postponed his answer through a mouthful of smoke, dismissing it into the atmosphere finally, to allow of speech determined on during its detention: "I'm afraid it's Adrian Torrens--there can't be two of the name who write poetry. Besides--the dog!" The lady said "Good Heavens!" in a frightened underbreath, and was visibly shocked. For it is usually someone of whom one knows nothing at all that gets shot accidentally. Now, Adrian Torrens was the name of a man recently distinguished as the author of some remarkable verse. A man of very good family too. So--altogether!... This was the expression used by Miss Smith-Dickenson's core, almost unrebuked. "Of course, I remember the poem about the collie-dog," she added aloud. "Can you remember the name of the dog? Wasn't it Aeneas?" "No--Achilles." "I meant Achilles. Well--his dog's Achilles." "I thought you said there was no name on the collar." "No more there was. But I understand that Gwen met him yesterday evening--down by Arthur's Bridge, I believe--and had some conversation with him, I gather." "Oh!" "But why? Why 'Oh!'--I mean?" "I didn't mean anything. Only that she was looking so scared and unhappy at breakfast, and that would account for it." "Surely ..." "Surely what?" "Well--does it want accounting for? A man shot dead almost in sight of the house, and by your own gamekeeper! Isn't that enough?" "Enough in all conscience. But it makes a difference. All the difference. I can't exactly describe.... It is not as if she had never met him in her life before. _Now_ do you see?..." "Never met him in her life before?..." The Hon. Percival stands waiting for more, one-third of his cigar in abeyance between his finger-tips. Getting no more, he continues:--"Why--you don't mean to say?..." "What?"