prowess; the sweat began to gather upon his forehead.

Of these signs, however, Plessy took no note. He had reached however
inartistically the point at which he had been aiming.

He was no longer to be baulked of reading his letter. He read it
through to the end, and Faversham listened to the end. It told its own
story. It was the letter of a girl who wrote in a frank impulse of
admiration to a man whom she did not know. There was nowhere a trace
of coquetry, nowhere the expression of a single sentimentality. Its
tone was pure friendliness, it was the work of a quite innocent girl
who because she knew the man to whom she wrote to be brave, therefore
believed him to be honourable. She expressed her trust in the very
last words. "You will not of course show this letter to any one in the
world. But I wrong you even by mentioning such an impossibility."

"But you have shown it," said Faversham.

His face was now grown of an extraordinary pallor, his lips twitched
as he spoke and his fingers worked in a nervous uneasy manner upon the
table-cloth. Captain Plessy was in far too complacent a mood to notice
such trifles. His vanity was satisfied, the world was a rosy mist
with a sparkle of champagne, and he answered lightly as he unfastened
another button of his tunic.

"No, my friend, I have not shown it. I keep the lady's wish."

"You have read it aloud. It is the same thing."

"Pardon me. Had I shown the letter I should have shown the name. And