“What do you want to ask him, Evie, dear?”

“Well, he’s a lawyer.  He could tell me all about what it’s all about.  I’m sure I don’t know.  I didn’t think it was anything—­and yet here’s Uncle Jarrott writing as if it was something awful.  He’s written to Aunt Queenie, too.  Of course I must stand by Herbert, whatever happens—­if it isn’t very bad; but you can see yourself that I don’t want to be mixed up in a—­a—­in a scandal.”

“It would hardly be a scandal, dear; but there would be some—­some publicity about it.”

“I don’t mind publicity.  I’m used to that, with my name in the paper every other day.  It was in this morning.  Did you see it?—­the Gresley’s dance.  Only I do wish they would call me Evelyn, and not Evie.  It sounds so familiar.”

“I’m afraid they’d put more in about you than just that.”

“Would they?  What?” Her eyes danced already, in anticipation.

“I can’t tell you exactly what; but it would be things you wouldn’t like.”

Evie twitched about the room, making little clicking sounds with her lips, as signs of meditation.

“Well, I mean to be true to him—­a while longer,” she said, at last, as if coming to a conclusion.  “I’m not going to let Uncle Jarrott think I’m just a puppet to be jerked on a string.  The idea!  When he was as pleased as Punch about it himself.  And Aunt Helen said she’d give me my trousseau.  I suppose I sha’n’t get that now.  But there’s the money you offered me for the pearl necklace.  Only I’d much rather have the pearl—­Well, I’ll be true to him, do you see?  We’re leaving for Newport the day after to-morrow.  They say there hasn’t been such a brilliant summer for a long time as they expect this year.  Thank goodness, there’s something to take my mind off all this care and worry and responsiblity, otherwise I think I should pass away.  But I shall show Uncle Jarrott that he can’t do just as he likes with me, anyhow.”

Evie and Miss Jarrott went to Newport, and it was the beginning of July before Miriam heard from Ford again.  Once more she read to Conquest such portions of the letter as she thought he would find of interest.

* * * * *

“It is all over now,” Ford wrote, “between Stephens and Jarrott and me.  I’m out of the concern for good.  It was something of a wrench, and I’m glad it is past.  I didn’t see the old man again.  I wanted to thank him and say good-bye, but he dodged me.  Perhaps it is just as well.  Even if I were to meet him now, I shouldn’t make the attempt again.  I confess to feeling a little hurt, but I thoroughly understand him.  He is one of those men—­you meet them now and again—­survivals from the old school—­with a sense of rectitude so exact that they can only see in a straight line.  It is all right.  Don’t think that I complain.  It is almost as much for his sake as for my own that I wish he could have taken what I call a more comprehensive