—it would convey too strong an idea, but she did make an odd little sound something like a much etherealised sniff.
I smiled again, and more broadly. I was enjoying beforehand the little victory which I was to enjoy over Mrs. Hilary.
'Yet it happens to be true,' said I.
Mrs. Hilary was magnificently contemptuous.
'Lord Mickleham told you so, I suppose?' she asked. 'And I suppose Lady Mickleham told him—poor man!'
'Why do you call him "poor man"?'
'Oh, never mind. Did he tell you?'
'Certainly not. The fact is, Mrs. Hilary—and really, you must excuse me for having kept you in the dark a little—it amused me so much to hear your suspicions.'
Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet.
'Well, what are you going to say?' she asked.
I laughed, as I answered,—
'Why, I was the man with Lady Mickleham when your friend and Berry inter—when they arrived, you know.'
Well, I should have thought—I should still think—that she would have been pleased—relieved, you know, to find her uncharitable opinion erroneous, and pleased to have it altered on the best authority. I'm sure that is how I should have felt. It was not, however, what Mrs. Hilary felt.
'I am deeply pained,' she observed after a long pause; and then she held out her hand.
'I was sure you'd forgive my little deception,'
