A light entered my brain:  John Mayrant had a position at the Custom House!  John Mayrant was subordinate to the President’s appointee!  She hadn’t changed the subject so violently, after all.

I came squarely at it.  “And so you wish him to resign his position?”

But I was ahead of her this time.

“The Chief of Customs?” she wonderingly murmured.

I brought her up with me now.  “Did Miss Josephine St. Michael say it was over his left eye?”

The girl instantly looked everything she thought.  “I believe you were present!” This was her highly comprehensive exclamation, accompanied also by a blush as splendidly young as John Mayrant had been while he so stammeringly brought out his wishes concerning the cake.  I at once decided to deceive her utterly, and therefore I spoke the exact truth:  “No, I wasn’t present.”

They did their work, my true words; the false impression flowed out of them as smoothly as California claret from a French bottle.

“I wonder who told you?” my victim remarked.  “But it doesn’t really matter.  Everybody is bound to know it.  You surely were the last person with him in the churchyard?”

“Gracious!” I admitted again with splendidly mendacious veracity.  “How we do find each other out in Kings Port!”

It was not by any means the least of the delights which I took in the company of this charming girl that sometimes she was too much for me, and sometimes I was too much for her.  It was, of course, just the accident of our ages; in a very few years she would catch up, would pass, would always be too much for me.  Well, to-day it was happily my turn; I wasn’t going to finish lunch without knowing all she, at any rate, could tell me about the left eye and the man in bed.

“Forty years ago,” I now, with ingenuity, remarked, “I suppose it would have been pistols.”

She assented.  “And I like that better—­don’t you—­for gentlemen?”

“Well, you mean that fists are—­”

“Yes,” she finished for me.

“All the same,” I maintained, “don’t you think that there ought to be some correspondence, some proportion, between the gravity of the cause and the gravity of—­”

“Let the coal-heavers take to their fists!” she scornfully cried.  “People of our class can’t descend—­”

“Well, but,” I interrupted, “then you give the coal-heavers the palm for discrimination.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, perfectly!  Your coal-heaver kills for some offenses, while for lighter ones he—­gets a bruise over the left eye.”

“You don’t meet it, you don’t meet it!  What is an insult ever but an insult?”

“Oh, we in the North notice certain degrees—­insolence, impudence, impertinence, liberties, rudeness—­all different.”

She took up my phrase with a sudden odd quietness.  “You in the North.”

“Why, yes.  We have, alas! to expect and allow for rudeness sometimes, even in our chosen few, and for liberties in their chosen few; it’s only the hotel clerk and the head waiter from whom we usually get impudence; while insolence is the chronic condition of the Wall Street rich.”