was, he would have slept little that night.

This brings me to the other change of which I spoke--the change in
Dorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis.

A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered a
drawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girl
snatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly.

"It is a caricature of--of him," she said. She smiled, and evidently was
willing to talk upon the subject of "him." I declined the topic.

This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir George
concerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture,
Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she was
with me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I well
knew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speak
of our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice to
induce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but I
always failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on the
terrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired
topic, she said, "I suppose you never meet--meet--him when you ride out?"

"Whom, Dorothy?" I asked.

"The gentleman with the cigarro," she responded, laughing nervously.

"No," I answered, "I know nothing of him."

The subject was dropped.