‘You are a witch!’ he said, a spasm of pain crossing his face.

‘Thank you,’ she answered, looking at him over her fan.  ’Last time you said, “D—­n the girl!” It is clear I am improving your manners, Sir George.  You are now so polite, that presently you will consult me.’

So she could read his very thoughts!  Could set him on the rack!  Could perceive when pain and not irritation underlay the oath or the compliment.  He was always discovering something new in her; something that piqued his curiosity, and kept him amused.  ’Suppose I consult you now?’ he said.

She swung her fan to and fro, playing with it childishly, looking at the light through it, and again dropping it until it hung from her wrist by a ribbon.  ‘As your highness pleases,’ she said at last.  ’Only I warn you, that I am not the Bottle Conjuror.’

‘No, for you are here, and he was not there,’ Sir George answered, affecting to speak in jest.  ’But tell me; what shall I do in this case?  A claim is made against me.’

‘It’s the bomb,’ she said, ‘that burst, Sir George, is it not?’

’The same.  The point is, shall I resist the claim, or shall I yield to it?  What do you say, ma’am?’

She tossed up her fan and caught it deftly, and looked to him for admiration.  Then, ‘It depends,’ she said.  ‘Is it a large claim?’

‘It is a claim—­for all I have,’ he answered slowly.  It was the first time he had confessed that to any one, except to himself in the night watches.

If he thought to touch her, he succeeded.  If he had fancied her unfeeling before, he did so no longer.  She was red one minute and pale the next, and the tears came into her eyes.  ‘Oh,’ she cried, her breast heaving, ‘you should not have told me!  Oh, why did you tell me?’ And she rose hurriedly as if to leave him; and then sat down again, the fan quivering in her hand.

‘But you said you would advise me!’ he answered in surprise.

‘I!  Oh, no! no!’ she cried.

‘But you must!’ he persisted, more deeply moved than he would show.  ’I want your advice.  I want to know how the case looks to another.  It is a simple question.  Shall I fight, Julia, or shall I yield to the claim?’

‘Fight or yield?’ she said, her voice broken by agitation.  ’Shall you fight or yield?  You ask me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then fight!  Fight!’ she answered, with surprising emotion:  and she rose again to her feet.  And again sat down.  ’Fight them to the last, Sir George!’ she cried breathlessly.  ’Let the creatures have nothing!  Not a penny!  Not an acre!’

‘But—­if it is a righteous claim?’ he said, amazed at her excitement.

‘Righteous?’ she answered passionately.  ’How can a claim be righteous that takes all that a man has?’

He nodded, and studied the road awhile, thinking less of her advice than of the strange fervour with which she had given it.  At the end of a minute he was surprised to hear her laugh.  He felt hurt, and looked up to learn the reason; and was astounded to find her smiling at him as lightly and gaily as if nothing had occurred to interrupt her most whimsical mood; as if the question he had put to her had not been put, or were a farce, a jest, a mere pastime!