were stickling for correctness. It was your insistence to me on what he ought to do—on what the family would have a right to expect him to do—that was the origin of the inquiry in which (yesterday, when I met him at St. Peter's,) I so rashly embarked."
"My dear fellow, the beauty of it is that the family have brought no pressure: that's an element I was taking for granted. He has no claim to recognise, because none has been made. He tells me that the Honourable Blanche, after her daughter's escapade with him, didn't open her mouth. Ces Anglaises!"
"Perhaps that's the way she made her claim," I suggested. "But why the deuce, then, couldn't he be quiet?"
"It's exactly what he thinks—that she may have been quiet out of delicacy. He's inimitable!"
"Fancy, in such a matter, his wanting advice!" I groaned, much troubled. We had stopped outside, under the palace windows; the sly porter, from the doorway, was still looking at us.
"Call it information," said Montaut.
"But I gave him lots, last night. He came to me."
"He wanted more—he wanted to be sure! He wanted an honest impression; he begged me, as a favour to him, to be very frank. Had he definitely, yes or no, according to my idea, excited expectations? I told him, definitely, yes—according to my idea!"
"I shall go after him," I declared; "I shall overtake him—I shall bring him back."
"You'll not play fair, then."
"Play be hanged! The fellow mustn't sacrifice his life."
"Where's the sacrifice?—she's quite as good as he. I don't detest poor Veronica—she has possibilities, and
