He took his cigar from his lips and looked at her with not unhumorous dryness.  “When the world was very young, my dear,” said he, “I’ve no doubt I called you so.  But not since.”

She stretched out her hand and tapped his.  She was very fond of him.  “You can’t help being a man, my poor boy, and thinking manly thoughts of me, a woman.  But I’m not an idiot.  Our young friend, as you call him, is as poor as a church mouse.  I know it.  No, don’t say, ‘How?’ like Uncle Edward.  He hasn’t told me, but Nurse has—­a heart-breaking history of socks and things.  There’s the doctor’s diagnosis, too.  I haven’t forgotten.  But the boy is too proud to cry poverty among strangers.  He keeps his end up like a man.  To hear him talk, one would think he not only hadn’t a care in the world, but that he commanded the earth.  How can one help admiring the boy’s pluck and—­that’s where my reticence comes in—­respecting the boy’s reserve?”

“H’m!” said Colonel Winwood.

“But, good gracious, Jim, dear, supposing you—­or any of us—­ men, I mean—­had been in this boy’s extraordinary position—­ would you have acted differently?  You would have died rather than give your poverty away to absolute strangers to whom you were indebted, in the way this boy is indebted to us.  Good God, jim”—­ she sent her dessert knife skimming across the table—­“don’t you see?  Any reference to poverty would be an invitation—­a veiled request for further help.  To a gentleman like Paul Savelli, the thing’s unthinkable.”

Colonel Winwood selected a fresh cigar, clipped off the end, and lit it from a silver spirit lamp by his side.  He blew out the first exquisite puff—­the smoker’s paradise would be the one first full and fragrant, virginal puff of an infinite succession of perfect cigars—­looked anxiously at the glowing point to see that it was exactly lighted, and leaned back in his chair.

“What you say, dear,” said he, “is plausible.  Plausible almost to the point of conviction.  But there’s a hole somewhere in your argument, I’m sure, and I’m too tired after my journey to find it.”

Thus, as the stars in their courses fought against Sisera, so did they fight for Paul; and in both cases they used a woman as their instrument.

Colonel Winwood, in spite of a masculine air of superiority, joined with the Archbishops and Cabinet Ministers above referred to in their appreciation of his sister’s judgment.  After all, what business of his were the private affairs of his involuntary guest?  He paid him a visit the next day, and found him lying on a couch by the sunny window, clad in dressing gown and slippers.  Paul rose politely, though he winced with pain.

“Don’t get up, please.  I’m Colonel Winwood.”

They shook hands.  Paul began to wheel an armchair from the bedside, but Colonel Winwood insisted on his lying down again and drew up the chair himself.  “I’m afraid,” said Paul, “I’ve been a sad trespasser on your hospitality.  Miss Winwood must have told you it has scarcely been my fault; but I don’t know how to express my thanks.”