“Ah!  It’s a matter of business, I see,” said the Colonel, inwardly relieved, but externally careless.  “And—­er—­may I ask the nature of the case?”

“Well! it’s a breach-o’-promise suit,” said the visitor calmly.

If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled, and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal.  Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion.  He had always held them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the prompt killing of the masculine offender—­in which case he would have gladly defended the killer.  But a suit for damages,—­damages!—­with the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was against all his instincts.  His chivalry was outraged; his sense of humor was small, and in the course of his career he had lost one or two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality in a jury.

The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause.  “It ain’t me—­but my darter.”

The Colonel recovered his politeness.  “Ah!  I am relieved, my dear madam!  I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to—­er—­er—­throw away such evident good fortune—­or base enough to deceive the trustfulness of womanhood—­matured and experienced only in the chivalry of our sex, ha!”

The woman smiled grimly.  “Yes!—­it’s my darter, Zaidee Hooker—­so ye might spare some of them pretty speeches for her—­before the jury.”

The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but smiled.  “Ha!  Yes!—­certainly—­the jury.  But—­er—­my dear lady, need we go as far as that?  Can not this affair be settled—­er—­out of court?  Could not this—­er—­individual—­be admonished—­told that he must give satisfaction—­personal satisfaction—­for his dastardly conduct—­to—­er—­near relative—­or even valued personal friend?  The—­er—­arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would undertake.”

He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that fire which a pretty woman or an “affair of honor” could alone kindle.  The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said slowly, “And what good is that goin’ to do us?”

“Compel him to—­er—­perform his promise,” said the Colonel, leaning back in his chair.

“Ketch him doin’ it!” she exclaimed scornfully.  “No—­that ain’t wot we’re after.  We must make him pay!  Damages—­and nothin’ short o’ that.”

The Colonel bit his lip.  “I suppose,” he said gloomily, “you have documentary evidence—­written promises and protestations—­er—­er love-letters, in fact?”

“No—­nary a letter!  Ye see, that’s jest it—­and that’s where you come in.  You’ve got to convince that jury yourself.  You’ve got to show what it is—­tell the whole story your own way.  Lord! to a man like you that’s nothin’.”

Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer, Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it.  The absence of any mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy.  He lightly put aside the compliment with a wave of his white hand.