“You mean, why do I not deny what you have no doubt heard?” he said.  “What could one gain by that if you had heard the truth?”

Maud Barrington laughed softly.  “Isn’t the question useless?”

“No,” said Winston, a trifle hoarsely now.

The girl touched his arm almost imperiously as he turned his head again.

“Lance,” she said.  “Men of your kind need not deal in subterfuge.  The wheat and the bridge you built speak for you.”

“Still,” persisted Winston, and the girl checked him with a smile.

“I fancy you are wasting time,” she said.  “Now, I wonder whether, when you were in England, you ever saw a play founded on an incident in the life of a once famous actor.  At the time it rather appealed to me.  The hero, with a chivalric purpose assumed various shortcomings he had really no sympathy with—­but while there is, of course, no similarity beyond the generous impulse, between the cases—­he did not do it clumsily.  It is, however, a trifle difficult to understand what purpose you could have, and one cannot help fancying that you owe a little to Silverdale and yourself.”

It was a somewhat daring parallel, for Winston, who dare not look at his companion and saw that he had failed, knew the play.

“Isn’t the subject a trifle difficult?” he asked.

“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “we will end it.  Still, you promised that I should understand—­a good deal—­when the time came.”

Winston nodded gravely.  “You shall,” he said.

Then, somewhat to his embarrassment, the two figures moved further across the window, and as they were silhouetted against the blue duskiness, he saw that there was an arm about the waist of the girl’s white dress.  He became sensible that Maud Barrington saw it too, and then that, perhaps to save the situation, she was smiling.  The two figures, however, vanished, and a minute later a young girl in a long white dress came in, and stood still, apparently dismayed when she saw Maud Barrington.  She did not notice Winston, who sat further in the shadow.  He, however, saw her face suddenly crimson.

“Have you been here long?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Maud Barrington, with a significant glance towards the window.  “At least ten minutes.  I am sorry, but I really couldn’t help it.  It was very hot in the other room, and Allender was singing.”

“Then,” said the girl, with a little tremor in her voice, “you will not tell?”

“No,” said Maud Barrington.  “But you must not do it again.”

The girl stooped swiftly and kissed her, then recoiled with a gasp when she saw the man, but Maud Barrington laughed.

“I think,” she said, “I can answer for Mr. Courthorne’s silence.  Still, when I have an opportunity, I am going to lecture you.”

Winston turned with a twinkle he could not quite repress in his eyes, and with a flutter of her dress the girl whisked away.