Words were superfluous. I smiled.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Loring went on, “I don’t think it fair. Men have half a dozen flirtations before they are married their wives know nothing about.”

“And women, Mrs. Chatterton?” I asked.

“Some women, Mr. Butterfield, may not be scrupulous. But——”

The unfinished sentence was a résume of female virtue since the days of Penelope.

“What are you two so interested in?” cried Mrs. Carmichael from a remote sofa. I had just caught her eye.

Mrs. Loring placed her hand beseechingly on my sleeve, but I hardened my heart.

“We were recalling the time, Mrs. Kit,” I replied, “before your several husbands were enticed from the liberty of bachelor life; we were commenting on the change in them.”

“You should be able to appreciate the difference, Mr. Butterfield,” returned Mrs. Carmichael. “You are just where they left you years and years ago.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, “I have not been able to bury my memory in the wedding-service, nor forget my past in a honeymoon. I am still as unregenerate as, say, Kit Carmichael was before he met you.”

“You are a great deal worse,” returned Mrs. Kit.

“You refuse a very pretty compliment, Mrs. Carmichael,” I replied.

“Yes, at Kit’s expense. It was you who made Kit as bad as he was. He told me so.”

The perfidy of these married friends! Rol Butterfield, you have no use for them when they sacrifice you on their nuptial altars. Their eyes lost their singleness with their hearts, and your reputation has gone for a kiss. Well, you have your revenge on their wives, if you care to use it.

The spark of righteous war was kindled within me. I leaned forward, and spoke my speech with icy distinctness.

“So I am responsible for Carmichael’s past, am I, Mrs. Kit? Listen to me. There was not a more abandoned and desperately wicked trio in London than Kit Carmichael—your meek brother, Miss Dixon—and Loring——”

Mrs. Chatterton endeavoured to stop me with a hot teaspoon 

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