“I do indeed recognise you now,” said I, mendaciously.  I seem to have been lying to-day through thick and thin.  “But in the confusion of the disaster—­”

“You sat next me at lunch one day last winter, at Mrs. Ordeyne’s,” interrupted the lady, “and you talked to me of transcendental mathematics.”

I remembered.  “The crime,” said I, “has lain heavily on my conscience.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she laughed, dismissing me with a bow.  I raised my hat and joined Carlotta.

It was a Miss Gascoigne, a flirtatious intimate of Aunt Jessica’s house.  To this irresponsible young woman I had openly avowed that I was the guardian of a beautiful Mohammedan whose religious instinct compelled her to destroy little dogs.  I shall hear of this from my Aunt Jessica.

I walked stonily away with Carlotta.

“You are cross with me,” she whimpered.

“Yes, I am.  You might have killed the poor little beast.  It was very wicked and cruel of you.”

Carlotta burst out crying in the midst of the promenade.

The tears did not romantically come into her eyes as they had done an hour before; but she wept copiously, after the unrestrained manner of children, and used her pocket-handkerchief.  From their seats women put up their lorgnons to look at her, passers-by turned round and stared.  The whole of the gaily dressed throng seemed to be one amused gaze.  In’ a moment or two I became conscious that reprehensory glances were being directed towards myself, calling me, as plain as eyes could call, an ill-conditioned brute, for making the poor young creature, who was at my mercy, thus break down in public.  It was a charming situation for an even-tempered philosopher.  We walked stolidly on, I glaring in front of me and Carlotta weeping.  The malice of things arranged that ne. neighbouring chair should be vacant, and that the path should be unusually crowded.  I had the satisfaction of hearing a young fellow say to a girl: 

“He?  That’s Ordeyne—­came into the baroaetcy—­mad as a dingo dog.”

I was giving myself a fine advertisement.

“For heaven’s sake stop crying,” I said.  Then a memory of far-off childhood flashed its inspiration upon me.  “If you don’t,” I added, grimly, “I’ll take you out and give you to a policeman.”

The effect was magical.  She turned on me a scared look, gasped, pulled down her veil, which she had raised so as to dab her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, and incontinently checked the fountain of her tears.

“A policeman?”

“Yes,” said I, “a great, big, ugly blue policeman, who shuts up people who misbehave themselves in prison, and takes off their clothes, and shaves their heads, and feeds them on bread and water.”

“I won’t cry any more,” she said, swallowing a sob.  “Is it also wicked to cry?”

“Any of these ladies here would sooner be burned alive with dyspepsia or cut in two with tight-lacing,” I replied severely.  “Let us sit down.”