The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed Mr Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot.  This was by degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a state of compound fracture.  This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position as the Greshamsbury heroine.

‘One cannot wonder at his being very angry,’ said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Mary—­very imprudently.

’Wonder—­no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry.  One might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough.’

‘I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr Moffat,’ said Beatrice, apologetically.

‘Not right, Trichy?  I think he was very right.’

‘Not to beat him so much, Mary!’

’Oh, I suppose a man can’t exactly stand measuring how much he does these things.  I like your brother for what he has done, and I may say so frankly—­though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should say such a thing, eh Trichy?’

‘I don’t know that there’s any harm in that,’ said Beatrice, demurely.  ’If you both liked each other there would be no harm in that—­if that were all.’

‘Wouldn’t there?’ said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; ’that is so kind, Trichy, coming from you—­from one of the family, you know.’

‘You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes—­’

’Yes:  I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are.  If you could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn’t I?  Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal.  You would trust me so far, wouldn’t you, Trichy?’

’I would trust you in any way, Mary.  But I think you are unkind in saying such things to me.’

’Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding:  that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me.’

‘But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?’

’Because—­because—­because—­ah me!  Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to.  Certainly not because you have deserved it.’

‘It seems as if you were finding fault with me.’

’And so I am; how can I do other than find fault?  How can I help being sore?  Trichy, you hardly realize my position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint.  You don’t see it all.  If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore.’

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately.