“I’m not talking of that,” his wife said. “I’ll try to put it within reach of your intellect. Suppose I know Mrs. Braithwaite to be a whited sepulchre; then if she does an insulting thing to me, isn’t that proof she’s furious with me for finding her out?” “No,” he answered. “It might incline one to think that she resented your poor opinion of her, but it doesn’t prove anything at all.” “Doesn’t it? You wouldn’t say so if you knew what I know!” Lily’s eyes widened in hopeful eagerness. “How exciting!” she cried. “Mamma, _what_ do you know about Mrs. Braithwaite?” “Never mind!” “But you said——” “I said, ‘Never mind’!” “But I do mind!” Lily insisted. “You haven’t got any right to get a person’s interest all worked up like that and then just say, ‘Never mind’!” “That’s all I _shall_ say, however,” Mrs. Dodge informed her stubbornly, and kept to her word, though Lily continued to press her until the meal was over. Mr. Dodge made no effort to aid his daughter in obtaining the revelation she sought;—he appeared to be superior to the curiosity that impelled her; but this appearance of superiority may have been only an appearance: he may have foreseen that his wife would presently be a little more explicit about what she had implied against their neighbour. In fact, Lily had no sooner gone forth upon some youthful junketing, immediately after dinner, than symptoms of forthcoming revelation were manifested. Mr. Dodge’s physician allowed him one cigar a day, and it had just begun to scent the library. “I suppose, of course, you’re condemning me for a reckless talker,” Mrs. Dodge said. “You assume that I’m willing to hint slander against a woman with only my own injury for a basis, instead of facts.” “On the contrary, Lydia,” he returned, mildly, “I know you wouldn’t have said what you did unless you have something serious to found it on.” Probably she was a little mollified, but she did not show it. “So you give me that much credit?” she asked, sourly. “I imagine it’s because you’re just as curious as Lily and hope to hear what I wouldn’t tell her. Well, I’m not going to gratify your curiosity.” “No?” He picked up a magazine from the table beside his chair, and began to turn over the pages. “Oh, very well!” “I _am_ going to tell you _something_, though,” she said. “It’s because I think you ought to be told at least _part_ of what I know. It may be good for you.” “For me?” he inquired, calmly, though he well understood what she was going to say next. “Yes; you might find it wiser to consult your wife next time, even when you’re dealing with people you think are saints.”