dly, disengaging
himself. "But let me assure you, Patricia, whether you like it or not,
that that is a male sentiment. I quite agree that no nice woman could
have written it. But, then, Hugh is not a nice woman--nor am I."

"I thought you were so fond of her!" said his wife, reproachfully.

"Miss Mallory? I adore her. But, to tell the truth, Patricia, I want a
daughter-in-law--and--and grand-children," added the doctor,
deliberately, stretching out his long limbs to the fire. "I admit that
my remarks may be quite irrelevant and ridiculous--but I repeat that--in
spite of everything--Hugh enjoyed his walk."

* * * * *

One October evening, a week later, Lady Lucy sat waiting for Sir James
Chide at Tallyn Hall. Sir James had invited himself to dine and sleep,
and Lady Lucy was expecting him in the up-stairs sitting-room, a medley
of French clocks and china figures, where she generally sat now, in
order to be within quick and easy reach of Oliver.

She was reading, or pretending to read, by the fire, listening all the
time for the sound of the carriage outside. Meanwhile, the silence of
the immense house oppressed her. It was broken only by the chiming of a
carillon clock in the hall below. The little tune it played, fatuously
gay, teased her more insistently each time she heard it. It must really
be removed. She wondered Oliver had not already complained of it.

A number of household and estate worries oppressed her thoughts. How was
she to cope with them? Capable as she was, "John" had always been there
to advise her, in emergency--or Oliver. She suspected the house-steward
of dishonesty. And the agent of the estate had brought her that morning
complaints of the head gamekeeper that were most disquieting. What did
they want with gamekeepers now? Who would ever shoot at Tallyn again?
With impatience she felt herself entangled in the endless machinery of
wealth and the pleasures of wealth, so easy to set in motion, and so
difficult to stop, even when all the savor has gone out of it. She was
a tired, broken woman, with an invalid son; and the management of her
great property, in which her capacities and abilities had taken for so
long an imperious and instinctive delight, had become a mere burden. She
longed to creep into some quiet place, alone with Oliver, out of reach
of this army of servants and dependents, these impassive and
unresponsive faces.

The crunching of the carriage wheel