had always—What it was, in the third place, that she had always done I did n't learn, for at this point she buried her head still deeper in my lap and sobbed for half an hour. Her grief was melting. I was never more troubled, and this in spite of the fact that I was furious at her strange air of acceptance of a probable calamity. She is afraid that everything isn't right, forsooth! I should think it was not, and should think it had n't been for heaven knows how long. This is what has been in the air; this is what was hanging over us. But Eunice is simply amazing. She declines to see a lawyer; declines to hold Mr. Caliph accountable, declines to complain, to inquire, to investigate in any way. I am sick, I am terribly perplexed—I don't know what to do. Her tears dried up in an instant as soon as I made the very obvious remark that the beautiful, the mysterious, the captivating Caliph is no better than a common swindler; and she gave me a look which might have frozen me if when I am angry I were freezable. She took it de bien haut; she intimated to me that if I should ever speak in that way again of Mr. Caliph we must part company forever. She was distressed; she admitted that she felt injured. I had seen for myself how far that went. But she did n't pretend to judge him. He had been in trouble,—he had told her that; and his trouble was worse than hers, inasmuch as his honor was at stake, and it had to be saved.
"It 's charming to hear you speak of his honor,"
