In her he saw for the first time in his life the intrepid maiden who seems to dare a man to come and master her.  That she should be the daughter of Robert Grimston, with his commercial primness, and Mrs. Grimston, with her pretentious snobbery, was a mystery he made no attempt to solve.  It was enough for him that this proud creature was in the world, especially as her bearing toward him inspired the hope that he might win her.  It was a pity that he should have turned aside from such high endeavor in a foolish dash to make himself the Hippomenes of Diane Eveleth’s Atalanta.  Putting little heart into the latter contest, he would have suffered little mortification from defeat, had it not been that the high spirits of the pursued lady invited the world to come and laugh with her at his expense.

Then it was that the Marquis de Bienville, in an uncontrollable access of wounded vanity, had thrown his traditions of honor to the winds, and lied.  It was not such a lie as could be told—­and forgotten; for there were too many people eager to believe and repeat it.  Within twenty-four hours he found himself famous, all the way from the Parc Monceau to the rue de Varennes.  After his conscience had given him a sleepless night he got up to see that any modification of his statement meant retraction.  Retraction was out of the question, in that it involved the loss of his reputation among men.  He was caught in a trap.  He must lie and maintain his place, or he must confess and go out of society.  It must not be supposed that he took his predicament lightly, or that he made his choice without pangs of self-pity at the cruel necessity.  It was his honor, or hers! and if only the one or the other could be saved, it must be his.  So he saved it—­according to his lights.  He saved it by being very bold in his statements by day, and heaping ignominy on himself during the black hours of sleeplessness.  He found, however, that the process paid; for boldness engendered a sort of fictitious belief which paralyzed the tendency to self-upbraiding until it ceased.

The special quality of his courage was shown on that gray dawn when he stood up before George Eveleth in a corner of the Pre Catalan.  He had not the moral force to confess himself a perjurer in the sight of Paris, but he could stand ready to take the bullets in his breast.  In going to the encounter he had no intention of doing otherwise.  He would not atone to an injured woman by setting her right in the eyes of men, but he would make her the offering of his life.

It was a satisfaction now to know, as he was assured by letters, that the incident was practically forgotten, and that Diane Eveleth had disappeared.  He himself found it easier than it used to be to dismiss the subject from his mind; and if he recalled it at times, it was generally—­as it had been on shipboard—­when at the end of his store of confidential anecdotes.  He was thinking, however, of dropping the story from his repertoire, for he had more than remarked that its effect was slightly sinister upon himself.  He noticed, too, that, during the first twenty-four hours on the steamer, Derek Pruyn avoided him, while he on his part had felt a curious impulse to slink out of sight, which could only be explained by the supposition that, as often happens on long voyages, they had seen too much of each other.