The Outcry: -1911

him in the rumpus he can't not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his character as a great nobleman and good citizen.'

'It's his luck to have become with the public of the newspapers the scapegoat-in-chief: for the sins, so-called, of a lot of people!' Lady Sandgate inconclusively sighed.

'Yes,' Lord John concluded for her, 'the mercenary millions on whose traffic in their trumpery values—when they're so lucky as to have any!—this isn't a patch!'

'Oh, there are cases and cases: situations and responsibilities so intensely differ!'— that appeared on the whole, for her ladyship, the moral to be gathered.

'Of course everything differs, all round, from everything,' Lord John went on; 'and who in the world knows anything of his own case but the victim of circumstances exposing himself, for the highest and purest motives, to be literally torn to pieces?'

'Well,' said Lady Sandgate as, in her strained suspense, she freshly consulted her bracelet watch, 'I hope he isn't already torn—if you tell me you've been to Kitty's.'

'Oh, he was all right so far: he had arrived and gone out again,' the young man explained, 'as Lady Imber hadn't been at home.'

'Ah cool Kitty!' his hostess sighed again—but diverted, as she spoke, by the reappearance of her butler, this time positively preceding Lord Theign, whom she met, when he presently stood before her, his garb of travel exchanged for consummate afternoon dress, with yearning tenderness and compassionate curiosity. 'At last, dearest friend—what a joy! But with Kitty not at home to receive you?'

That young woman's parent made light of it for the indulged creature's sake. 'Oh I knew my Kitty! I dressed and I find her at five-thirty.' To which he added as he only took in further, without expression, Lord John: 'But Bender, who came there before my arrival—he hasn't tried for me here?'

It was a point on which Lord John himself could at least be expressive. 'I met him at the club at luncheon; he had had your letter—but for which chance, my dear man, I should have known nothing. You'll see him all right at this house; but I'm glad, if I may say so, Theign,' the speaker pursued with some emphasis—'I'm glad, you know, to get hold of you first.'

Lord Theign seemed about to ask for the meaning of this remark, but his other companion's apprehension had already overflowed. 'You haven't come back, have you—to whatever it may be!—for trouble of any sort with Breckenridge?'

His lordship transferred his penetration to this fair friend, 'Have you become so intensely absorbed—these remarkable days!—in 'Breckenridge'?'

She felt the shadow, you would have seen, of his claimed right, or at least privilege, of search—yet easily, after an instant, emerged clear. 'I've thought and dreamt but of you—suspicious man!—in proportion as the clamour has spread; and Mr. Bender meanwhile, if you want to know, hasn't been near me once!'

Lord John came in a manner, and however unconsciously, to her aid. 'You'd have seen, if he had been, what's the matter with him, I think—and what perhaps Theign has seen from his own letter: since,' he went on to his fellow-visitor, 'I understood him a week ago to have been much taken up with writing you.'

Lord Theign received this without comment, only again with an air of expertly sounding the speaker; after which he gave himself afresh for a moment to Lady Sandgate. 'I've not come home for any clamour, as you surely know me well enough to believe; or to notice for a minute the cheapest insolence and aggression—which frankly scarce reached me out there; or which, so far as it did, I was daily washed clean of by those blest waters. I returned on Mr. Bender's letter,' he then vouchsafed to Lord John—'three extraordinarily vulgar pages about the egregious Pap-pendick!'

'About his having suddenly turned up in person, yes, and, as Breckenridge says, marked the picture down?'— the young man was clearly all-knowing. 'That has of course weighed on Bender—being confirmed apparently, on the whole, by the drift of public opinion.'

Lord Theign took, on this, with a frank show of reaction from some of his friend's terms, a sharp turn off; he even ironically indicated the babbler or at least the blunderer in question to Lady Sandgate. 'He too has known me so long, and he comes here to talk to me of 'the drift of public opinion'!' After which he quite charged at his vain informant. 'Am I to tell you again that I snap my fingers at the drift of public opinion?—which is but another name for the chatter of all the fools one doesn't know, in addition to all those (and plenty of 'em!) one damnably does.'

Lady Sandgate, by a turn of the hand, dropped oil from her golden cruse. 'Ah, you did that, in your own grand way, before you went abroad!'

'I don't speak of the matter, my dear man, in the light of its effect on you,' Lord John importantly explained—'but in the light of its effect on Bender; who so consumedly wants the picture, if he is to have it, to be a Mantovano, but seems unable to get it taken at last for anything but the fine old Moretto that of course it has always been.'

Lord Theign, in growing disgust at the whole beastly complication, betrayed more and more the odd pitch of the temper that had abruptly restored him with such incalculable weight to the scene of action. 'Well, isn't a fine old Moretto good enough for him; confound him?'

It pulled up not a little Lord John, who yet made his point. 'A fine old Moretto, you know, was exactly what he declined at Dedborough—for its comparative, strictly comparative, insignificance; and he only thought of the picture when the wind began to rise for the enormous rarity—'

'That that mendacious young cad who has bamboozled Grace,' Lord Theign broke in, 'tried to befool us, for his beggarly reasons, into claiming for it?'

Lady Sandgate renewed her mild influence. 'Ah, the knowing people haven't had their last word—the possible Mantovano isn't exploded yet!' Her noble friend, however, declined the offered spell. 'I've had enough of the knowing people—the knowing people are serpents! My picture's to take or to leave—and it's what I've come back, if you please, John, to say to your man to his face.'

This declaration had a report as sharp and almost as multiplied as the successive cracks of a discharged revolver; yet when the light smoke cleared Lady Sand-gate at least was still left standing and smiling. 'Yes, why in mercy's name can't he choose which?—and why does he write him, dreadful Breckenridge, such tiresome argumentative letters?'