As for the message, if you wish it,
I'll go to him--"
"Oh, that doesn't matter," she interrupted.
"This much I can say, in honesty," continued the Southerner, with
an effort: "I had a talk, almost an encounter, with him in the
plaza, and I don't believe he is the coward I thought him."
His intent to be fair to the object of his scorn was so genuine
that his critic felt a swift access of compunction.
"Oh, Fitz," she said sweetly, "you're not to blame. I should have
told you. And you're honest and loyal and a gentleman. Only I wish
sometimes that you weren't quite so awfully gentlemanly a
gentleman."
The Southerner made a gesture of despair.
"If I could only understand you, Miss Polly!"
"Don't hope it. I've never yet understood myself. But there's a
sympathy in me for the under dog, and this Mr. Perkins seems a
sort of helpless creature. Yet in another way he doesn't seem
helpless at all. Quite the reverse. Oh, dear! I'm tired of
Perkins, Perkins, Perkins! Let's talk about something pleasanter--
like the plague."
"What's that about Perkins?" Galpy had entered the drawing-room
where the conversation had been carried on, and now crossed over
to them.
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