Sydney’s little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me,—as if, since last night, when he what he calls ‘proposed’ to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind,—for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts¹ at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen² my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair’s breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife to-night,—which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years,—though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom³ merely because I preferred another man,—and he, I believe, does care for me.

 

Papa’s affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,—and this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was expected to speak to-night,—as if I did not know it!—and availed himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case, he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don’t know—or, rather, I do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually⁵ employs. However, I said nothing. I had a motive⁶ for allowing the chaff⁷ to fly before the wind.

 

But, to-night, issue was joined.

 

I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,—as I have done over and over again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in the lobby, there was Sydney,—all

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