People who would pass for better than their neighbors will never believe any good purpose in one who does not choose to talk their slang." Sepia had repressed her rage, and through it looked aggrieved.

"She confesses to a purpose," said Mary to herself, and waited.
"They are not all villains who are not saints," Sepia went on.

"-- This man's wife is your friend ?" "She is." "Well, the man himself is my friend--in a sort of a sense." A strange shiver went through Mary, and seemed to make her angry.

Sepia went on: "I confess I allowed the poor boy--he is little more--to talk foolishly to me.

I was amused at first, but perhaps I have not quite escaped unhurt; and, as a woman, you must understand that, when a woman has once felt in that way, if but for a moment, she would at least be--sorry--" Here her voice faltered, and she did not finish the sentence, but began afresh: "What I want of you is, through his wife, or any way you think best, to let the poor fellow know he had better slip away--to France, say--and stop there till the thing blow over." "But why should you imagine he has had anything to do with the matter?
The ring will be found, and then the hat will not signify." "Well," replied Sepia, putting on an air of openness, and for that sake an air of familiarity, "I see I must tell you the whole truth.