with her brother in Canada. It was possible that she
might allude to Sylvia's doings when she wrote; but there was some
consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a
censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she
descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an
elegantly bound little notebook in her hand. A handsome, dark-haired
man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side. Bland's
glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners
were usually characterized by a humorous boldness. Still, it was
difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his
rather marked preference for her society. She was, however, studying
the little book as she went down the shallow steps and her expression
indicated dissatisfaction.

"I'm afraid it was my fault, though you had very bad luck," said the
man, noticing her look. "I'm dreadfully sorry."

"It was your fault," Sylvia rejoined, with some petulance. "When I
held my best hand I was deceived by your lead. Besides, as I told the
others, I didn't mean to play; you shouldn't have come down and
persuaded me."

Bland considered. On the whole Sylvia played a good game, but she was
obviously a little out of practise, for his lead had really been the
correct one, though she had not understood it. This, however, was of
no consequence; it was her concluding words that occupied his
attention. They had, he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of
their significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty of any
ill-considered admission.

"Then I'm flattered that my influence goes so far, though it's perhaps
unlucky in the present instance," he said boldly. "I'll own that I'm
responsible for our misfortunes and I'm ready to take the consequences.
Please give me that book."

"No," Sylvia replied severely. "I feel guilty for playing at all, but
the line must be drawn."

"Where do you feel inclined to draw it?"

They had reached the hall and Sylvia turned and looked at him directly,
but with a trace of coquetry.

"At allowing a comparative stranger to meet my losses, if I must be
blunt."

"The arrangement isn't altogether unusual. In this case, it's a duty,
and the restriction you make doesn't bar me out. I'm not a stranger."

"A mere acquaintance then," said Sylvia.

"That won't do either. It doesn't apply to me."

"Then I'