She threw her muff in one direction, her boa in another, and her gloves in still another.

“But, Evie darling, you surely didn’t think—­”

“Of course I never thought of anything like this.  I didn’t really think of anything at all.  If I’d begun to give my mind to it, I should probably have hit on something a great deal worse.”

“What do you mean, dear?  Worse—­than what?”

“Worse than just being accused of shooting your uncle—­and it was only his great-uncle, too.  I might have thought of forgery or something dishonorable, though I should know he wasn’t capable of it.  Being accused isn’t much.  You can accuse any one—­you could accuse me.  That doesn’t prove anything when he says he didn’t do it.  Of course he didn’t do it.  Can’t any one see?  My goodness!  I wish they’d let me make the laws.  I’d show them.  Just think!  To put a man like that in prison—–­ and say they’d do such awful things to him—­and make him change his name—­and everything.  It’s perfectly scandalous.  It’s an outrage.  I shouldn’t think such things would be allowed.  They wouldn’t be allowed in the Argentine.  Why, there was a man out there who killed his father-in-law—­actually killed him—­and they didn’t do anything to him at all.  I’ve seen him lots of times.  Aunt Queenie has pointed him out to me.  He used to have the box next but two to ours at the opera.  And to think they should take a man like Herbert, and worry him like that—­it makes me so indignant I’d like to—­”

Evie ground her teeth, threw her clinched fists outward, and twitched her skirts about the room in the prettiest possible passion of righteous anger.

“But, darling,” Miriam asked, in a puzzled voice, “what are you going to do about it?”

Evie wheeled round haughtily.

“Do about it?  What would you expect me to do about it?  I’m going to tell every one he didn’t do it—­that’s what I’m going to do about it.  But of course we’re not to speak of it just yet—­outside ourselves, you know.  He’s going to Buenos Aires to tell Uncle Jarrott he didn’t do it—­and when he comes back we’re going to make it generally known.  Oh, there’s to be law about it—­and everything.  He means to change his name again to what it was before—­Ford, the name was—­and I must say, Miriam, I like that a good deal better than Strange, if you don’t mind my telling you.  It seems odd to have so many Stranges—­and I must say I never could get used to the idea of having exactly the same name as yours.  It was almost like not being married outside the family—­and I should hate to marry a relation.  That part of it comes as a pleasant surprise, do you see?  I’d made up my mind to Strange, and thought there was no way of getting rid of it, unless I—­but I wasn’t looking ahead to anything of that kind.  I hope I shall never—­”

“So, darling, you’re going to be true to him?”