“And one of my few friends.”

“He’s not your friend, Fred!” she cried, sitting upright and speaking with energy that quivered in her voice and flashed in her fine brown eyes.  “He’s your enemy—­a snake in the grass—­a malicious, poisonous——­”

Norman’s quiet, even laugh interrupted.  “Oh, no,” said he.  “Tetlow’s a good fellow.  Anything he said would be what he honestly believed—­anything he said about me.”

“He pleaded that he was doing it for your good,” she went on with scorn.  “They always do—­like the people that write father wicked anonymous letters.  He—­this man Tetlow—­he said he wanted me for the sake of my love for you to save you from yourself.”

Norman glanced at her with amused eyes.  “Well, why don’t you?  But then you are doing it.  You’re marrying me, aren’t you?”

Again she put her head upon his shoulder.  “Indeed I am!” she cried.  “And I’d be a poor sort if I let a sneak shake my confidence in you.”

He patted her shoulder, and there was laughter in his voice as he said, “But I never professed to be trustworthy.”

“Oh, I know you used to—­” She laughed and kissed his cheek.  “Never mind.  I’ve heard.  But while you were engaged to me—­about to marry me—­why, you simply couldn’t!”

“Couldn’t what?” inquired he.

“Do you want me to tell you what he said?”

“I think I know.  But do as you like.”

“Maybe I’d better tell you.  I seem to want to get rid of it.”

“Then do.”

“It was about that girl.”  She sat upright and looked at him for encouragement.  He nodded.  She went on:  “He said that if I asked you, you would not dare deny you were—­were—­giving her money.”

“Her and her father.”

She shrank, startled.  Then her lips smiled bravely, and she said, “He didn’t say anything about her father.”

“No.  That was my own correction of his story.”

She looked at him with wonder and doubt.  “You aren’t—­doing it, Fred!” she exclaimed.

He nodded.  “Yes, indeed.”  He looked at her placidly.  “Why not?”

“You are supporting her?”

“If you wish to put it that way,” said he carelessly.  “My money pays the bills—­all the bills.”

“Fred!”

“Yes?  What is it?  Why are you so agitated?” He studied her face, then rose, took a final pull at the cigarette, tossed it in the fire.  “I must be going,” he said, in a cool, even voice.

She started up in a panic.  “Fred!  What do you mean?  Are you angry with me?”

His calm regard met hers.  “I do not like—­this sort of thing,” he said.

“But surely you’ll explain.  Surely I’m entitled to an explanation.”

“Why should I explain?  You have evidently found an explanation that satisfies you.”  He drew himself up in a quiet gesture of haughtiness.  “Besides, it has never been my habit to allow myself to be questioned or to explain myself.”