THE TURN OF THE LONG LANE
Echo came to her feet, all her blood on fire. In her resentment it had seemed to her that by very silence she had made herself party to that slur upon the man she loved, and she had been aching fiercely to repel it.
Craig tossed his segar away. He made no apologies for having followed her from the piazza. "May I sit here and talk to you?" he asked.
She remained standing. "Mr. Craig," she said with quiet emphasis, "I am glad you have come to me here. I have something to ask you which I could not have asked you—there."
He bowed and stood waiting.
"I fancied," she went on, "in certain of your remarks at the table a lurking innuendo. It is difficult to reply to such a thing. You would make it possible if you would put it in a more direct form."
"Your own observation does not appear to err in directness," he answered, after a pause. "I am afraid I must ask you to descend to plain English."
"In the course of the dinner you told a story."
"Henceforth I shall congratulate myself on my skill as a raconteur." His tone was mildly ironic.
"It seemed to me—and I think I am of average intelligence and not more fanciful than most—that by that story you intended to convey, an insinuation against the reputation of a gentleman whom I do not care to hear maligned."