"That depends who the man is," answered Myles quietly. "It is simply a case of Lovelace over again:
"'I would not love thee dear so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
"It is absurd--quixotic--ridiculous--to talk about honour in these days, I grant you, but unfortunately I inherit loyal blood, and--well, I must ask you to trust me till I can speak."
"And you will speak?"
"Yes; if it comes to the worst," he replied with a slight shiver.
The girl gave him her hand, which he took and pressed slightly. So thus, mutely, they made up their quarrel.
All the foregoing conversation about honour was Greek to Flip, who, after some cogitation, came to the conclusion it was a scene out of a play. But now they began to talk on a subject more suited to his comprehension.
"May," said Myles, "I want you to tell me all that Lady Balscombe did on--on that night."
"The night when she eloped?"
"Yes."