All the angers of scorn in Hendrik were pointed at Miss Wimple; all the sharp tongues of Hendrik hissed at her; and her good name fell at once into the portion of the vilest weeds.  Simon Blount saw and heard, and his soul was sorely troubled.  Like all true love, loyal and vigilant, his love for Sally was clear-sighted and sagacious.  Infatuation is either gross passion or pretence,—­the flash and bogus jewelry of the heart; but true love, though its eyes may ache with the seeing, sees ever sharply.  All beautiful examples teach that the blindness of Love is not a parable, but an imposture; and Simon saw that Sally was in a false position,—­false to herself and to him; for she denied him that confidence which he had a right to share, sharing, as he did, all the scandal and the scorn; and in that, she was unconsciously unjust.  She denied herself the aid and comfort of his tender counsel and his approbation, the protection of his understanding and believing, when for him to understand and believe was for her to be safe and bold.  For even the pride of Sally Wimple, overdone, could become arrogance; even her disinterestedness, intemperately indulged in, could take on the form of selfishness.

Simon went to Sally, and said:  “Tell me what all this means.”  But Sally, weak now in her very strength, said:  “Nothing!  Let my ways be my own ways still; I alone am answerable for them.  Is ’believing and waiting’ so hard to do?  I did not send for you.”

Then Simon conceived a tremendous coup de coeur, a daring one enough, as women go,—­women of such stuff as the Sally Wimples of this world are made of.  He said, “I will try the old trick, the foolish old trick that I always despised, but which must have something sound in it, after all, since it has served the turn, through all time, of people in my predicament.”  So Simon went over (not with his heart,—­trust him!—­but with his legs) to Adelaide Splurge.  Miss Wimple, never guessing, saw him go, and made no sign, though her heart fairly cracked:  “He will return one day,” she thought; “if it be too late then, so much the better for him, perhaps.”

Of Adelaide, the town had begun, some time since, to say, that she had tired of Philip Withers,—­that she did not appreciate him, could not understand him,—­he was too deep for her.  Foolish town!  She had only found him out, and learned to hate him as fiercely as she despised him unutterably.  She had truly loved the man, and her shrewd heart had played the detective for his Madeline secret.

For such a Fouche a slighter clue would have sufficed to lead to the conviction of so besotted a traitor, than many an incautious hint of his, and many a tale-telling vaunt of his irresistible egotism, afforded her; for, like all the weak wretches of his sort, there was not a more bungling lout, to try the patience of a clever man, than Philip Withers, when his game lay between his safety and his vanity.