In that flash of scrutiny, he took in even the details of her dress, and knew that, plain as it was, it had come from a good house, probably from Paris itself; there were no cheap rings on the well-formed, but not too small, hands; he realized that he was confronting the embodiment of the three qualities most desirable--youth, beauty, strength; and he was conscious of a reluctant thrill of admiration.

His eyes sank, and, involuntarily, he sighed.

For he was thinking of another woman.
"Did you hear what I said ?" asked Celia, in a low voice, one a trifle more gentle, though it was still firm.

"I said that I don't believe you." "Yes; I heard," he responded, with a listless smile of irony; "but I am afraid twelve good men in a box--the jury, you know--would not be so incredulous.

May I ask why you refuse to accept my plea of guilty?
Not that it matters!" Celia's brows drew together, and she looked as if she were somewhat embarrassed and puzzled by the question; at last, after a pause, she replied, woman-like, "You don't look like one." "Quite so," he said, with deeper irony.