elling
you so now, mother, because this, you see, disposes finally of the
matter."

His voice contended oddly with the noise of the wheels, rattle of the
pole-chains, pounding of the hoofs of the pulling horses. The sentences
came to Lady Calmady's ears disjointed, difficult to follow and
interpret. Therefore she answered slightly at random.

"My dearest, I could have kept her longer in the spring if I had only
known," she said, a disquieting suspicion of lost opportunity assailing
her. "But, from certain things which you said, I thought you preferred
our being alone."

"So I did. I wanted her to go because I wanted her to stay. Do you
see?"

"Ah, yes! I see," Katherine replied. And at that moment, it must be
conceded, her sentiments were not conspicuously pacific towards her
faithful adherent, Mr. Quayle.

"We've a good many interests in common," Dickie went on, "and there
seemed a chance of one's settling down into a rather charming
friendship with her. It was a beguiling prospect. And for that very
reason, it was best she should depart. The prospect, in all its
beguilingness, renewed itself to-day after luncheon."--He paused,
handling the plunging horses.--"And so after all Ludovic shall be
reckoned welcome. For, as I say, I might have come to depend on her.
And one's a fool--I ought to have learnt that salutary lesson by this
time--a rank fool, to depend on anybody, or anything, save oneself,
simply and solely oneself"--his tone softened--"and upon you, most dear
and long-suffering mother.--Therefore the dream of friendship goes
overboard after all, along with the rest of one's little illusions. And
every illusion one rids oneself of is so much to the good. It lightens
the ship. It lessens the chances of sinking. Clearly it is so much pure
gain."

That evening, pleading--unexampled occurrence in her case--a headache
as excuse, Miss St. Quentin did not put in an appearance at dinner. Nor
did Richard put in an appearance at breakfast next morning. At an early
hour he had received a communication earnestly requesting his presence
at the Westchurch Infirmary. His mission promised to be a melancholy
one, yet he was not sorry for the demand made by it upon his time and
thought. For, notwithstanding the philosophic tone he had adopted with
Lady Calmady in speaking of that friendship which, if not nipped in the
bud, might have reached perils of too luxuriant blossoming, the
would-be saint and the natural man, the p