cad?”

“I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment — when he said his father was having a bath.”

“Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know.”

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels.

“You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?”