ature, who now felt
that he had swallowed it.

Quite as comfortably, Paliser returned to his muttons. "I may cease then
to be an epicure?"

There was the fish again, but how to land him? The glittering fisherlady
could not bind and gag the bait and drop her into his mouth. At any such
attempt, the bait would pack and go, might even go without packing. Yet
there was the fish, eager, willing, the gills awiggle. Barring a few
gold-fish in Bradstreet, in Burke and in Lempriere, this fish was the
pick of the basket. To see him glide away, and for no other earthly
reason than because the bait refused to be hooked, was simply inhuman.
Flesh and blood could not stand it. No, nor ingenuity either. Instantly
the angler saw that in default of bait, a net may do the trick and, with
the ease of a prestidigitateur, she produced one.

"You have my blessing!"

Paliser laughed and bowed. He was in it, it was where he wanted to be
and he liked it. But in view of existing domestic arrangements, he was
in it a bit too soon and, wriggling through a mesh, he stopped laughing
and looked solemn.

"You are very good. But beforehand my father will expect to be consulted
and, just at present, that is impossible. The physicians would forbid
it."

"The poor dear old man! You don't mean----"

Paliser half raised a hand. The gesture was slight but expressive. One
never knew!

But so much the better, thought Mrs. Austen. Pending the delay she could
so bombard the bait, bombard her day in, day out, and the whole night
through, that, like Liege and Namur, her resistance would crumble, and
meanwhile he would come in for everything, or nearly everything, she
reflected, and the reflection prompting, she affected concern.

"Has your sister been informed?"

"I cabled her to-day," said Paliser, who had done nothing of the kind.

With the same concern, Mrs. Austen lied as freely. "It is too sad for
words." But at once the air of the sympathiser departed, replaced by
that of the hostess. Through one door the men were entering. Through
another came the girls.

Kate Schermerhorn approached. "Dear Mrs. Austen, Margaret's all right,
but she has a headache." As she spoke, she threw a glance at Cantillon.

Poppet Bleecker also approached. "It is too bad, Margaret is such a
dear! I would like to stop on but they tell me my maid is here. Thank
you so much, dear Mrs. Austen."

The lady stood up. "But you are not all going!" They all were though.
She k