"Well, you are accommodating; I'll be considerate."
"No doubt you will," said Lucy; then turning her glorious eyes full upon him, "WHAT'S THE CRIME?"
"The crime!" said Monckton, looking all about the room to find it.
"What crime?"
"The crime I'm wanted for; all your schemes are criminal, you know."
"Well, you're complimentary. It's not a crime this time; it's only a confession."
"Ah! What am I to confess—bigamy?"
"The idea! No. You are to confess—in a distant part of England, what you can deny in London next day—that on a certain day you married a gentleman called Walter Clifford."
"I'll say that on the eleventh day of June, 1868, I married a gentleman who was called Walter Clifford."
This was Lucy's reply, and given very doggedly.
"Bravo! and will you stand to it if the real Walter Clifford says it is a lie?"