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88 quick-changing glances, robbed of her supple grace—like frozen quicksilver. And the necklace glittered away indifferently between us.

At last the duchess, her eyes still fixed on the whitewashed wall opposite, said in a slow emphatic tone:

“I wouldn’t touch it, if it were the crown of France!”

I plucked up my courage to answer her. For Marie Delhasse’s sake I felt a sudden anger.

“You are pharisaical,” said I. “The poor girl has acted honorably. Her touch has not defiled your necklace.”

“Yes, you must defend what you persuaded,” flashed out the duchess. “It’s the greatest insult I was ever subjected to in my life!”

Here was the second lady I had insulted on that summer day!

“I did but suggest it—it was her own wish.”

“Your suggestion is her wish! How charming!” said the duchess.

“You are unjust to her!” I said, a little warmly.

The duchess rose from the corn bin, made the very most of her sixty-three inches, and remarked:

“It’s a new insult to mention her to me.”

I passed that by; it was too absurd to answer.

“You must take it now I’ve brought it,” I urged in angry puzzle.

The duchess put out her hand, grasped the case delicately, shut it—and flung it to the other side of the stable, hard by where an old ass was placidly eating a bundle of hay.