“What! Miss Montressor and her friend?” Trent remarked thrusting his head into the cold water. “Phew!”      

       “Exactly! Two very charming young ladies, my dear friend, very charming indeed, but a little—don't you fancy just a little fast!”      

       “Hadn't noticed it,” Trent answered, drying himself. “What about it?”      

       Da Souza tugged at his little black imperial, and moved uneasily about.     

       “We—er—men of the world, my dear Trent, we need not be so       particular, eh?—but the ladies—the ladies are so observant.”      

       “What ladies?” Trent asked coolly.     

       “It is my wife who has been talking to me,” Da Souza continued. “You see, Julie is so young—our dear daughter she is but a child; and, as my wife says, we cannot be too particular, too careful, eh; you understand!”      

       “You want them to go? Is that it?”      

       Da Souza spread out his hands—an old trick, only now the palms were white and the diamonds real.     

       “For myself,” he declared, “I find them charming. It is my wife who says to me, 'Hiram, those young persons, they are not fit company for our dear, innocent Julie! You shall speak to Mr. Trent. He will understand!' Eh?”      

       Trent had finished his toilet and stood, the hairbrushes still in his hands, looking at Da Souza's anxious face with a queer smile upon his lips.     

       “Yes, I understand, Da Souza,” he said. “No doubt you are right, you cannot be too careful. You do well to be particular.”      

       Da Souza winced. He was about to speak, but Trent interrupted him.     

       “Well, I'll tell you this, and you can let the missis know, my fond father. They leave to-morrow. Is that good enough?”      

       Da Souza caught at his host's hand, but Trent snatched it away.     

       “My dear—my noble—”      

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