at Josephine, whom Pocock Vancouver had just detached from her group of
girls, "really you may not be so very, very far wrong." John's glance
followed the direction of her eyes, and he saw Vancouver. He looked
steadily at the man's delicate pale features and intellectual head, and at
the end of half a minute he and Mrs. Wyndham looked at each other again.
She probably regretted the hint she had carelessly dropped, but she met
Harrington's gaze frankly.

"I did not mean to say it," she said, for John looked so grave that she
was frightened. "It was only a guess."

"But have you any reason to think it might be the truth?" asked John.

"None whatever--really none, except that he differs so much from you in
every way, politically speaking."

She knew very well that Vancouver hated John, and she had often thought it
possible that the offensive articles in question came from the pen of the
former. There was a tone of superior wit and a ring of truer English in
them than are generally met with in the average office work of a daily
newspaper.

"I do not believe Vancouver writes them," said John, slowly. "He is not
exactly a friend, but he is not an enemy either."

Mrs. Wyndham, who knew better than that, held her peace. She was not a
mischief-maker, and moreover she liked both the men too well to wish a
quarrel between them. She busied herself at the tea-table for a moment,
and John stood near her, watching the moving crowd. Now and then his eyes
rested on Josephine Thorn's graceful figure, and he noticed how her