"Oh, fire away then; only help yourself to the claret first."
"A girl—Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona—has had a child born—"
"Stop a moment. Do I know her?—Ah, to be sure—daughter of old Pezzack, the light-keeper—a brown-colored girl with her hair over her eyes. Well, I'm not surprised. Wants money, I suppose? Who's the father?"
"I don't know."
"Well, but—damn it all!—somebody knows." Sir Harry reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
"The one thing I know is that Honoria—Mrs. George, I mean—has heard about it, and suspects me."
Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim. "That's the devil. Does she, now?" He sipped. "She hasn't been herself for a day or two—this explains it. I thought it was change of air she wanted. She's in the deuce of a rage, you bet."
"She is," said Taffy, grimly.
"There's no prude like your young married woman. But it'll blow over, my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for a while."
"But—but it's a lie!" broke in the indignant Taffy. "As far as I am concerned there's not a grain of truth in it!"