d dreadful stories about you. You can't expect me to be--not to
be careful with you."

"What stories?" he demanded.

"Oh! I couldn't tell you."

"H'm. There never was a Halkett but was painted so black that he got to
think it was his natural colour. That doesn't matter. And you don't care
about the stories. You've some notion--D'you know that I went to the
same school as your brothers?"

"Yes, I know." She swung herself to her knees. "But you're not like
them. But that isn't it either. It's because you're a man." She laughed
a little as she knelt before him. "I can't help feeling that I can--that
men are mine--to play with. There! I've told you a secret."

"I'd guessed it long ago," he muttered. He stood up and turned aside.
"You're not going to play with me."

"Just a little bit, George!"

"Not a little bit."

"Very well," she said humbly, and rose too. "I may never see you again,
so I'll say good-bye."

"Good-bye," he answered, and held her hand.

"And if I don't go away, and if I feel that I don't want to play with
you, but just to--well, really to be friends with you, can I be?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't trust you."

She nodded, teasing her lip again. "Very well," she repeated. "I shall
remember. Yes. You're going to be very unhappy, you know."

"Why?" he asked dully.

"For saying that to me."

"But it's the truth."

She shook her little hands at him and spoke loudly. "You seem to think
the truth's excuse enough for anything, but you're wrong, George, and if
you were worth it, I should hate you."

Then she turned from him, and as he watched her run towards home he
wished he had lied to her and risked bewitchment.

CHAPTER V

The efforts of Mildred Caniper, Helen and Mrs. Samson produced a
brighter polish on floors and furniture, a richer brilliance from brass,
a whiter gleam from silver, in a house which was already irreproachable,
and the smell of cleanliness was overcome by that of wood fires in the
sitting-rooms and in Christopher where Uncle Alfred was to sleep. A bowl
of primroses, brought by John from Lily Brent's garden and as yellow as
her butter, stood on a table near the visitor's bed: the firelight cast
shadows on the white counterpane, a new rug was awaiting Uncle Alfred's
feet. In the dining-room, the table was spread with the best cloth and
the candles were ready to be lighted.

"When we see the trap," Miriam said, "I'll go round with a taper. And
we'd