jumping up. She came back and laid the cards in his hand--quite
a packet of them. Mr. Falkirk found names that he knew and
names that he did not. He turned them over, speaking some of
the names in an inexpressive sotto voce; and then began
doubling them up, one after the other, and letting them fall
on the floor beside him.

'Have you got a copy of the Arabian Nights in your library, my
dear?' he asked. 'I wish you would send for it. I am not
posted. I have an indistinct impression of a fight between two
rival powers, in which, after a variety of transformations,
the one of them in the shape of a kernel of corn was swallowed
by the other in some appropriate shape. I should like to study
the tactics, watch my opportunity, and make an end of these
gentry.' Mr. Falkirk dropped the last card as he spoke.

'Ha! ha!' laughed Wych Hazel in her soft notes. 'You will feel
better, sir, when you have had a cup of tea.' And she began
preparing it at once. Whether or not Mr. Falkirk felt better
he did not say.

The girl went off to her dressing. And just before the hour
when Miss Bird must arrive she came silently in again and
stood before her guardian. If Mr. Falkirk thought of humming-
birds then, it could only have been of the tropical species. A
dark dress, that shimmered and glittered and fell into shadows
with every motion, first caught his eye; but then Mr. Falkirk
saw that it was looped with bouquets. Now either Miss Hazel's
admirers had differing tastes, or a different image of her, or
else each sent what he could get; for the bouquets were
extremely diverse. A bunch of heath and myrtle held up the
dress here, a cluster of crimson roses held it back there;
another cluster of gold and buff, a trailing handful of
glowing fuchsias--there is no need to go through the list. But
she had arranged them with great skill to set each other off;
tied together by their own ribbands, catching up the shimmer
of her dress.

Mr. Falkirk looked, and the fact that his face expressed
nothing at all was rather significant. One glance at the
girl's face he gave, and turned away.

'Take care, my dear,' he said.

'Of what, sir?'

'How do _you_ know but those flowers are bewitched? You would
not be the first woman who had put on her own chains.'

She smiled--rather to herself than him--throwing her little
white cloak over her shoulders; and then, girl-like, went down
on one knee and kissed her guardian's hand.

'Good-night, sir,'