with
his courtliest smile, as he bowed over Millicent's hand.

"It might be," with a coquettish glance.

"If--?"

"If I were not afraid of you."

Sir John turned, smiling, to greet Lady Cantourne. He did not appear to
have heard, but in reality the remark had made a distinct impression
on him. It signalised a new departure--the attack at a fresh quarter.
Millicent had tried most methods--and she possessed many--hitherto
in vain. She had attempted to coax him with a filial playfulness of
demeanour, to dazzle him by a brilliancy which had that effect upon the
majority of men in her train, to win him by respectful affection; but
the result had been failure. She was now bringing her last reserve up
to the front; and there are few things more dangerous, even to an old
campaigner, than a confession of fear from the lips of a pretty girl.

Sir John Meredith gave himself a little jerk--a throw back of the
shoulders which was habitual--which might have been a tribute either to
Millicent behind, or to Lady Cantourne in front.

The pleasantest part of existence in a large country house full of
visitors is the facility with which one may avoid those among the guests
for whom one has no sympathy. Millicent managed very well to avoid Sir
John Meredith. The baron was her slave--at least he said so--and she
easily kept him at her beck and call during the first evening.

It would seem that that strange hollow energy of old age had laid its
hand upon Sir John Meredith, for he was the first to appear in the
breakfast-room the next morning. He went straight to the sideboard where
the letters and newspapers lay in an orderly heap. It is a question
whether he had not come down early on purpose to look for a letter.
Perhaps he could not stay in his bed with the knowledge that the postman
had called. He was possibly afraid to ask his old servant to go down and
fetch his letters.

His bent and knotted hands fumbled among the correspondence, and
suddenly his twitching lips were still. A strange stillness indeed
overcame his whole face, turning it to stone. The letter was there; it
had come, but it was not addressed to him.

Sir John Meredith took up the missive; he looked at the back, turned
it, and examined the handwriting of his own son. There was a whole
volume--filled with pride, and love, and unquenchable resolve--written
on his face. He threw the letter down among its fellows, and his hand
went fumbling weakly at his lips. He g