“A month or so of summer would be pleasant, spent in that way,” observed Mr. Asquith; “but to settle finally! Something morbid about him, I suppose; he looks, in fact, rather bloodless, like a man with a fixed idea. Ten to one, he’s on precisely the wrong tack; instead of wanting more of his own society, he ought to have less of it. I suppose he lives alone?”
“Quite.”
“The worst thing for any man. I shouldn’t dare to converse with myself exclusively for two consecutive days. The great, preservative of sanity is free intercourse with one’s fellow men—to see the world from all points, and to refrain from final conclusions.”
Chat of this kind went on for a few minutes, all taking part in it except Ada.
“You are fond of the country, Miss Warren,” Asquith said at length, addressing the latter directly.
“Yes, I’m fond of the country,” was the reply, given in a mechanical way, and with a cold, steady look, whilst she ruffled the edges of her review. Asquith had found it at first difficult to determine whether the peculiarity of the girl’s behaviour were due to excessive shyness or to some more specific cause; but shyness it certainly was not, her manner of speaking and of regarding him put that out of the question. Did she, then, behave in this way to every stranger, or was he for some reason personally distasteful to her; or, again, had something just happened to disturb her temper?
“Your liking for it, though, would scarcely go to the extent of leading you to take up a solitary abode in a labourers cottage?”
“I can’t say,” Ada replied slowly. “One is often ready to do anything for the sake of being left alone.”
“Ada would stipulate, however, to be supplied with the Fortnightly or the Nineteenth Century,” put in Mrs. Clarendon laughingly.
“If anything could drive me into the desert,” was Robert’s remark, “it would be the hope of never again being called upon to look at them. I shouldn’t wonder if Mr.—Mr. Kingcote, isn’t it?—has fled from civilisation for the very same reason. Probably he has cast away books, and aims at returning to the natural state of man.”
“By no means,” said Isabel. “He has brought down quite a library.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Robert, with a humorous shaking of the head, “then he is, I fear, engaged in adding to the burden which oppresses us. No wonder he hides his head; he is writing a book.”
“Perhaps he is a poet, Mrs. Clarendon,” puts in Rhoda.
“Perhaps so, Rhoda; and some day we may have pilgrims from all corners of the earth visiting the cottage he has glorified.”
“With special omnibuses from Winstoke station,” added Robert, “and a colony of licensed victuallers thriving about the sacred spot.”
“Let us be thankful,” exclaimed Isabel, “that a poet’s fame is usually deferred for a generation or two. Ha, there’s the first luncheon bell! It brings a smile to your face, Robert.”
“Did I betray myself? I confess I breakfasted early.”
The two girls walked towards the house together, their elders following more slowly.
“Isn’t Rhoda Meres a nice girl?” said Isabel, when the object of her remark was out of hearing.
“Very,” her cousin assented, though without enthusiasm. He seemed to be thinking of something else.
“The poor child has got a foolish idea into her head; she wants to go on to the stage.”
“Does she—ha? Most young people have that idea at one time or another, I believe. In default of a special audience of one, you see–”
“And she is such a good, dear girl!” pursued Isabel, when Asquith showed no sign of continuing. “Her father is a literary man, the editor of a magazine called Ropers Miscellany—do you know it? He and I are the best of old friends. Its only with the thought of helping her father, I’m sure, that Rhoda has taken up this fancy; we must drive it out of her head somehow.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” remarked Robert, more absently than before.
Isabel glanced at him, and kept silence till they reached the house.
There was nothing remarkable about the structure itself of Knightswell; the front was long and low, built of brick faced with stone, and the level entrance was anything but imposing. The main portion of the building was early eighteenth century, but in the rear there still existed a remnant of the sixteenth century manor-house which had once stood here; the ancient hall now served as kitchen, its fine stone fireplace being filled up with an incongruous modern range. The present hall was surrounded with oak panelling, which Mr. Clarendon had obtained at the dismantling of an old house in the neighbourhood; all else of the interior had become, by successive changes, completely modernised, with the exception of an elaborate chimney-piece in the drawingroom—massive marble-work resting on caryatides—always said, though without corroborative evidence, to be a production of Grinling Gibbons. The faces of the two supporters were curiously unlike each other: on the one side it was that of a youthful maiden, who smiled, and seemed to be upraising her arms in sport; the other was an aged but not unbeautiful face, wearing an expression of long-suffering sadness, worn under the burden which the striving arms sustained. In the dining-room were a few good pictures, taken with the house from the preceding occupants. For Knightswell was not the ancestral abode of Mr. Clarendon’s family; it had passed, by frequent changes, from tenant to tenant, all inglorious. Notwithstanding his historic name, Mr. Clarendon was a novus homo; his father had begun life as an obscure stockbroker, had made a great fortune, and ended his life in a comfortable dwelling in Bayswater; his daughters, there were two, married reputably, and were no more heard of.
During luncheon Asquith was still much occupied in observing Ada Warren whenever he could unobtrusively do so. The young ladies were rather silent, and even Isabel showed now and then a trace of effort in the bright flow of talk which she kept up. Between herself and her cousin, however, there was no lack of ease; a graceful intimacy had established itself on the basis of their kinship, though not exactly that kind of intimacy which bespeaks life-long association. Their talk was of the present, or of the immediate past; neither spoke of things or people whose mention would have revived the memory of years ago.
“And what are you doing with yourself?” Mrs. Clarendon inquired, when Robert had abandoned another futile attempt to draw Ada Warren into converse.
“Upon my word,” was his reply, “I hardly know. The town; I see a good deal of it, indoors and out; it still has the charm of novelty. I can’t say that time has begun to hang heavy on my hands; in truth, it seldom does.”
“Fortunate being!”
“Yes, I suppose so. I find that people have a singular capacity for being bored; I notice it more than I used to. For my own part, I generally find a good deal of enjoyment to be got out of the present moment; the enjoyment of sound health, at lowest. You know how pleasant it is to look back on past days, even though at the time they may have seemed anything but delightful. I account for that by believing that the past always had a preponderant element of pleasure, though disturbing circumstances wouldn’t allow us to perceive it. It’s always a joy to be alive, and we recognise this in looking back, when accidents arrange themselves in their true proportion.”
He glanced at Ada; the girl was smiling scornfully, her face averted to the window.
“The present being so delightful,” said Mrs. Clarendon, “what joyous pleasures have you for the immediate future?”
“Grouse on Wednesday next,” Robert replied, after helping himself to salt in a manner which suggested that he was observant of the number of grains he took. “An acquaintance who has a moor, or a portion of one, in Yorkshire, has given me an invitation. As I have never shot grouse, I shall avail myself of the opportunity to extend my experience.”
“Promise me the pick of your first bag.” There was a project for a long drive in the afternoon; the weather was bright but sufficiently cool, and Robert professed himself delighted. He had a few minutes by himself in the drawing-room when the ladies went up to make their preparations. He gave a careful scrutiny to the caryatides, smiling, as was generally the case when he regarded anything, then glanced about at the pictures and the chance volumes lying here and there; the latter were novels and light literature from Mudie’s. Then he took up a number of the Queen, and began to peruse it, sitting in the window-seat.
“What a singular choice of literature!” exclaimed Isabel, as she came in drawing on her gloves.
“The Queen? It interests me. There’s something so very concrete about such writing. I like the concrete.”
“The first time I ever heard so learned a term applied to so frivolous a publication. After all, Rhoda, there may be more in us poor creatures than we gave ourselves credit for.”
“Do tell me,” said Robert, as he laid down the paper, “what is a—I hope I may ask—what is a ‘graduated plastron’?”
“Oh, this is dreadful!” laughed Isabel. “Come along, the carriage is waiting; we’ll discuss graduated plastrons on our way.”
“Are we not to have the pleasure of Miss Warren’s company?” Robert asked, as they entered the phaeton.
“Ada never goes out with us,” was Mrs. Clarendon’s answer as she took the reins and prepared to drive.
There was no additional guest at dinner; the evening was helped along by Rhoda’s playing and singing. Her voice was good, and she had enjoyed good teaching; this at Mrs. Clarendon’s expense. It was one of many instances in which Isabel had helped her friends the Meres, her aid being given in a manner of which she alone had the secret—irresistible, warm-hearted, delicate beyond risk of offence. Ada sat in the room, but, as usual, had a book in her hands.
“You read much,” said Robert, seating himself beside her and perforce obtaining her attention.
“It is a way of getting through life,” the girl replied, rather less abruptly than she had hitherto spoken.
“That means that life is not quite so attractive to you as it might be?” he returned, under the cover of the music which had just begun.
“I doubt whether life is attractive to any one—who thinks about it.”
She had folded her hands on the pages and was leaning back in her chair. Robert examined her and came to the conclusion that she was not quite so disagreeable in countenance as the irregularity of her features at first led one to think. She had large eyes, and, to meet them, was to be strangely impressed, almost as with the attraction of beauty. Her evening dress was of black satin, a richer and more tasteful garment than he had expected she would wear, judging from her appearance earlier in the day. Her hair, too, was very carefully arranged. The foot, which just showed itself, was not small, but beautifully shaped. Ornaments she had none.
“That is censure clearly directed against myself,” Robert said, with good humour. “And yet I fancy I have thought a good deal of life.” Ada did not seem disposed to pursue the argument.
“What are you reading?” Asquith inquired. It was a volume of Comte. She showed the title without speaking.
“You are a Positivist?”
“No; merely an atheist.”
The confession was uttered in such a matter-of-fact tone that Robert was disposed to think she used the word just for the pleasure of startling him. There was, in fact, a barely perceptible glimmer in her eyes as she sat looking straight before her.
“That’s rather dogmatic, isn’t it?” he remarked, smiling. “The word Agnostic is better, I fancy.”
“I believe it comes to very much the same thing,” said Ada. “The new word has been coined principally to save respectability.”
“A motive with which you have small sympathy?”
“None whatever.”
There was a silence between them.
“You play?” Robert asked, Rhoda Meres having risen from the piano.
“Only for my own amusement.”
“Then certainly you play things which I should like to hear. Will you play me something that has a tune in it? I don’t mean to reflect upon Miss Meres’ playing; but my ear is in a rudimentary state. I should be very grateful if you would play something.”
Ada seemed to harden her face against an intruding smile. She rose, however, and walked over to the piano. Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda looked at her with undisguised surprise. Asquith noticed that her walk might have been graceful, had she not affected a sort of indifference in gait.
She seated herself at the instrument and played an operatic air; it lasted about three minutes, then she ceased. Robert looked in expectation of her resuming her former seat, but she walked straight to the door and disappeared.
Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda Meres exchanged glances, and for an instant there was a rather awkward silence. Isabel found a subject, and talked with her wonted vivacity.
Ada did not return. About half-past ten Rhoda began to make preparations for departure; she went to one of the windows, and held the blind aside a little to look out at the night.
“Oh! what a moon!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Clarendon, do let us just go out for a minute on to the lawn; the country is so wonderful at night.”
Wrappers were at hand for the ladies, and the three went out together. The whole scope of visible heavens was pale with light; the blacker rose the circle of trees about Knights-well. The leaves made their weird whispering, each kind with its separate voice; no other sounds came from the sleeping earth.
“We often hear the nightingale,” Isabel said, lowering her voice. “Perhaps it’s too early yet.”
Then she added:
“This is the hour of our poet’s inspiration.”
“What poet?” asked Robert.
“Our poet in the cottage; don’t you remember?”
“Ah, the morbid young man. Poor fellow!”
Isabel suppressed a low laugh.
“Come, Rhoda dear, it’s cold,” she said to the girl, who had drawn a little apart.
Rhoda followed in silence, her head bent. In the hall she took her candle, and bade the two a hasty good-night.
“Why is she crying?” asked Robert, under his voice, as he entered the drawing-room again with Isabel.
The latter shook her head, but did not speak. She moved about the room for a moment; the shawl had half slipped from her shoulders, and made a graceful draping. Asquith stood watching her.
She approached him.
“I half hinted,” she began, “that I had a selfish object in asking you to come here. We are good friends, are we not?—old and good friends?”
There was a beautiful appeal upon her face, anxiety blending with a slight embarrassment. She had put aside the mask of light-heartedness, and that which it had all day been in her countenance to utter freely exposed itself. It was not so much as distress; rather, impatience of some besieging annoyance. She was more beautiful now than when Robert had read her face seventeen years ago. Still, he regarded her with his wonted smile. There was much kindness in his look; nothing more than kindness.
“The best of friends, Isabel, I hope,” he replied to her.
“I am going to ask you to do something for me,” she continued. “Will you sit down and listen to me? I am not sure that I do right in asking this favour of you, but you are the only one of my relatives whom I feel able to talk freely with, and I think I had rather you than any one else did this thing that I am going to ask. Perhaps you will find it too disagreeable; if so, tell me—you will promise to speak freely?”
“Certainly, I promise.”
They had taken their seats. Asquith rested one of his arms on a small table, and waited, the smile lingering. Isabel gathered the shawl about her, as if she felt cold. She was a trifle pale.
“You understand perfectly,” she resumed, with a certain abruptness, which came of the effort it cost her to broach the subject, “the meaning of Ada Warren’s presence in this house?”
“Perfectly, I think,” her cousin replied, with a slight motion of his eyebrows.
“That is to say,” pursued Isabel, looking at the fringe of her shawl, “you know the details of Mr. Clarendon’s will?”
He paused an instant before replying.
“Precisely,” was his word, as he tapped the table.
Isabel smiled, a smile different from that with which she was wont to charm. It was one almost of self-contempt, and full of bitter memories.
“I had never heard of her,” she continued, “until I was called upon to take her as my own child. Then she was sent to me from people who had had the care of her since she was three years old.”
Asquith slowly nodded, wrinkling his forehead.
“Well, we will speak no more of that. What I wish to ask you to do for me is this:—Oh, I am ashamed to speak of it! It is something that I ought to have done myself already. But I am a coward; I have always been a coward. I can’t face the consequences of my own—my own baseness; that is the true word. Will you tell Ada Warren what her real position is, and what mine?”
Asquith raised his head in astonishment.
“She is still ignorant?”
“I have every reason to believe so. I don’t think any one will have told her.”
Robert bit his upper lip.
“Has she never asked questions about her origin?”
“Yes, but only once. I told her that her parents were friends of Mr. Clarendon, and that she was an orphan, therefore I had taken her. That was several years ago.”
Again there was a pause in the dialogue. Isabel had difficulty in keeping her face raised; her cheeks had lost their pallor, the blood every now and then made them warm.
“She seems a strange being,” Asquith remarked. “I am not as a rule tempted to puzzle about people’s characteristics, but hers provoke one’s curiosity.”
“I cannot aid you,” Isabel said, speaking quickly. “I know her as little as on the day when I first saw her. I have tried to be kind; I have tried to–”
She broke off. Her voice had begun to express emotion, and the sound seemed to recall her to self-command. She looked up, smiling more naturally, though still with a touch of shame.
“Will you help me, cousin?” she asked.
“Certainly I will do what you wish. Do you desire me to explain everything in detail–”
“The will, the will,” she interposed, with a motion of her hand. “Yes, the full details of the will.”
“And if she asks me–?”
“You know nothing—that is best. You cannot speak to her on such a subject. Will you wait for me a moment?”
She rose hastily and left the room. Asquith remained standing till her return. She was only a few moments absent, and came back with a folded paper in her hand.
“This,” she said, “is a full copy of the will. It might be best to read it to her, or even to let her have it to read herself. She may keep it if she wishes to.”
Asquith took the paper and stood in thought.
“You have well considered this?” he asked.
“Oh, for long enough. I thank you for your great kindness.”
“When shall I see her? To-morrow is Sunday. Does she go to church?”
“Never.”
“Then I will take the opportunity, whilst you and Miss Meres are away.”
Isabel gave him her hand, and they exchanged good-nights.
CHAPTER IV
Robert Asquith was in the garden before breakfast next morning, with untroubled countenance, scrutinising objects in detail, now and then suppressing a tendency to give forth a note or two of song. He walked with his hands in his pockets, not removing them when he stooped to examine the gardener’s inscription stuck by the root of a flower or shrub. He had no special interest in these matters, but the bent of his mind was to observation; he avoided as much as possible mere ruminativeness. The course of his wandering brought him round to the stables; the sight of their admirable order and of the beasts in the stalls—the carriage-horse, the two beautiful ponies that Mrs. Clarendon drove, and the five-year-old chestnut which at present she rode—gave him an Englishman’s satisfaction. Isabel was as active and practical in the superintendence of her stables as in every other pursuit which she regarded as duty or pleasure; the most exacting squire could not have had things in better condition. Here Robert came in contact with his acquaintance, the groom, and received from him much information about the animals, also concerning their predecessors in the stables. Strolling back to the front lawn, accompanied by the house-dog, he met Ada Warren. She wore her ordinary brown straw hat, and seemed to be coming from the park. The dog began to leap about her, barking joyously.
She spoke a quiet good-morning, but did not offer to shake hands. Robert talked a little about the fine weather and the pleasure of breathing morning air; he elicited in reply a series of assents. Ada had taken one of the dog’s silky ears in her hand, and the animal suffered himself very patiently to be led thus.
“Do you remain at home this morning, Miss Warren?” Robert inquired, as they approached the house.
“Yes.”
“In that case, may I ask if you will favour me with half-an-hour’s conversation some time after breakfast?”
She looked round with frank surprise, only turning away her gaze when she had assured herself of his seriousness.
“I shall be in the library till one o’clock,” she said.
“Thank you; I will come there.”
Watching her at breakfast, Robert thought he perceived some traces of curiosity and anticipation in the girl’s face; once, too, he caught her eyes straying in his direction. “Come,” he said to himself, “there is something human in her after all. We shall see if we can’t make the exhibition yet more pronounced.”
As soon as Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda Meres were gone to church, Asquith made his way to the library, carrying the document which Isabel had entrusted to him the night before. The room remained very much as it had been in Mr. Clarendon’s days. When gentlemen were at Knightswell, it was used as a retreat for smoking; Isabel herself scarcely ever entered, but Ada Warren used it regularly. There were on the shelves not more than four hundred volumes, and half of these were calf-bound legal literature and blue-books, representing periods of Mr. Clarendon’s career. On the table lay volumes of a different kind, many of them showing Mudie’s tickets; they were works of human interest of the day, food—or at least refreshment—for an active and independent mind; French and German books were here too. Asquith glanced at the names on one or two of the yellow backs in passing, and suppressed a smile. But he thought all the better of the girl for her intellectual enterprise.
Ada sat with her back to the window, reading; at his entrance she closed her book, but did not move. He placed a chair at a little distance from her, and leaned forward, as if about to talk in a familiar manner.
“I surprised you by my request?” he began, with a smile. “It was rather formal, and necessarily so, for it is strictly a matter of business that I wish to speak of.”
Ada’s position had not allowed him to get a clear view of her face at first. Raising his eyes after this introduction, he was startled by what he saw. The girl was the hue of death; all the natural tint had left her cheeks, and her lips were unnaturally pale. She was pressing one hand against her left side, and her eyes showed that she was suffering from scarcely controllable agitation. He was in doubt whether to take notice of it or not, when she suddenly rose from the chair.
“You are unwell, Miss Warren–?”
She turned sharply away, and walked the length of the room.
“Shall I postpone—this business?” said Robert, remarkably interested in observing her.
“Thank you, no,” was her reply, as she seated herself further from him than before. “I shall be obliged to you if you will speak plainly and directly, whatever the business is. I have a headache; a long conversation will be disagreeable to me.”
“I will speak as directly as possible. At Mrs. Clarendon’s request I have undertaken to make known to you certain facts regarding your—your future, of which, I understand, it has not been deemed necessary to speak hitherto. I have, in short, to tell you what were the provisions of the late Mr. Clarendon’s will; they concern you nearly.”
Ada’s aspect was calm, but he saw that her bosom rose and fell in a way which showed an inward struggle. She gave no sign of a wish to speak.
“I have here a copy of the will,” he continued, unrolling the paper. “It is long, and of course full of technicalities. Perhaps I shall do best to put the gist of it into a few plain words. To begin then, Mr. Clarendon made you heiress of all but the whole of his real and personal estate, with possession upon your attainment of your majority, or, should you marry before that age, then at your marriage. Under the will two trustees are appointed, gentlemen who were Mr. Clarendon’s friends— I need not mention their names. Until either of the events which should give you possession, Mrs. Clarendon had the use of Knightswell, with all it contained, and an income from the estate of two thousand pounds a year; this, however, only on condition that she took you into her house and brought you up in every way as her own child, with care for your education such as the trustees should approve. If Mrs. Clarendon declined to accept this condition, or if she married again prior to your entering into possession, her benefit by the will was limited to an annuity of three hundred pounds.”
Robert paused. His tone was as matter-of-fact as if he were demonstrating a proposition of Euclid, but a smile had at length risen to his face. It came of his observation of the listener. Ada had closed her eyes; her hands were nervously clasped upon her lap.
“You follow this, Miss Warren?”
She raised her lids and regarded him. Her bosom had ceased to heave; she seemed to have regained her ordinary state of mind.
“I follow it,” she said.
“Should you die, unmarried, before the end of your twenty-first year,” Asquith pursued, “the whole of the estate goes to certain very remote connections of Mr. Clarendon.—No other contingency is provided for.”
“No other contingency is provided for,” repeated the girl mechanically. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean–”
Robert interrupted himself, and resumed in an off-hand way:
“Oh, other possible cases which will occur to one thinking the matter over.”
Ada appeared to reflect. Her face was turned slightly upwards, and a restful expression had come upon it.
“Is it,” she asked at length, “within your province to tell me any more than this?”
“I think,” Robert replied, “that I have nothing more to tell. If you wish it, I will leave this copy with you; I understood Mrs. Clarendon to say that you might keep it.”
“Thank you, I will do so.”
She rose and took it from his hand.
“There is one thing,” she said, “that I should like to ask you; I dare say you will have no objection to answer. Are the provisions of this will generally known—to Mrs. Clarendon’s friends, I would say?”
“In all probability they are,” was his reply. “Thank you.”
Clearly there was nothing more to be said on either side. Any comment from Asquith was of course out of the question, and Ada, at all times so chary of her conversation, was not likely to give utterance to her feelings under the present circumstances. She moved away, slightly returned the other’s bow, and went from the room.
At luncheon Ada did not appear. It was not an uncommon thing for her to take meals by herself; but Mrs. Clarendon and Robert felt that her absence to-day had a significance. She was at dinner, however, and behaved as usual. Nothing in her betrayed a change in her state of mind.
Whilst Rhoda was reading in the garden in the afternoon, Mrs. Clarendon strayed apart with her cousin.
“You have told her?” she said, meeting Robert’s look.
“Yes, and left the copy of the will with her. It seems to have made her oblivious of lunch.”
“Poor girl!”
The exclamation was a sincere one. Robert looked surprised.
“Did she ask you many questions?” Isabel continued.
“Two: whether I had anything more to tell her; and whether I thought that the will was generally known? To the former I said ‘No;’ to the latter ‘Yes.’”
“Whether it was generally known,” repeated Isabel, with a low laugh of a not very mirthful kind. Then, after a pause, “What do people say of me? What is the common talk about me? What do the men say? and—oh! the women?”
“My dear cousin, you know perfectly well what they say; what they have been saying since they first began to talk about you—that you are a charming woman, and so good-hearted that no one can for shame breathe a word against you.”
Isabel sighed.
“Rather, so shameless that gossip has not yet found the proper term to characterise me. Well, never mind myself; happily I shall soon cease to be an object of any general interest. But did she not ask any question about the value of the property?”
“No word of it. She kept me strictly at arm’s length.”
“And she displayed no—no emotion?”
“At first, yes; she was extremely agitated. But she held it down. I imagine she is what is called a woman of character. I had rather not be her husband.”
Isabel made no reply, but walked on with her head bent.
“Will you let me ask you,” Robert began, “had you any particular reason for wishing to inform her of these matters just now?”
“Yes, I had. There is no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. There is a certain Mr. Lacour—you’ll meet him here to-morrow afternoon—a young man whom I have known for some time as a friend of the Bruce Pages; their place is at Hanford, five miles off. He’s a brother of Sir Miles Lacour. Well, Mr. Vincent Lacour has called on me often in town, and a week ago he lunched with us here; he’s staying at the Bruce Pages’ again. I rather like him, and I believe there’s not a bit of harm in him really; but he seems to have been terribly wild, and he’s quarrelled with his brother, the baronet. I don’t suppose he’s anything left to live on, and Sir Miles refuses to help him any more. We learn all this from young Lacour himself; he’s remarkably frank, embarrassingly so at times. Now I half fancy he’s made an impression on Ada; certainly I never knew her talk so freely with any one, or show such healthy signs of interest. It wouldn’t be surprising; he’s a charming young fellow, decidedly handsome, and the strangest talker. I fancied Ada looked pleased when I mentioned that he was coming to the garden party tomorrow. I don’t know whether he ought to be put in the girl’s way, but I had to ask the Bruce Pages, and I couldn’t leave him out very well. Now you see my reason. I have never before been obliged to think of such a thing. It would be unjust to Ada to leave her in the dark as to her true position.”