es--and began to say his lesson."

"Molly!"

She laughed, hysterically.

"He did. He said his lesson. He gabbled it. When he had got as far
as, 'Well, don't you know, what I mean is, that's what I wanted to
say, you know,' I turned round and soothed him. I said I didn't love
him. He said, 'No, no, of course not.' I said he had paid me a great
compliment. He said, 'Not at all,' looking very anxious, poor
darling, as if even then he was afraid of what might come next. But
I reassured him, and he cheered up, and we walked back to the house
together, as happy as could be."

McEachern put his hand round her shoulders. She winced, but let it
stay. He attempted gruff conciliation.

"My dear, you've been imagining things. Of course, he isn't happy.
Why, I saw the young fellow--"

Recollecting that the last time he had seen the young fellow--shortly
after dinner--the young fellow had been occupied in juggling, with
every appearance of mental peace, two billiard-balls and a box of
matches, he broke off abruptly.

Molly looked at him.

"Father."

"My dear?"

"Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?"

He met the attack stoutly.

"I think he's a fine young fellow," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"He's quite nice," said Molly, quietly.

McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it.
If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it. But he was
not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in surroundings where the
subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave
a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.

"He's the Earl of Dreever, my dear."

He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the
statement in a comfortable garment of words.

"Why, you see, you're young, Molly. It's only natural you shouldn't
look on these things sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You
expect this young fellow to be like the heroes of the novels you
read. When you've lived a little longer, my dear, you'll see that
there's nothing in it. It isn't the hero of the novel you want to
marry. It's the man who'll make you a good husband."

This remark struck Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he
repeated it.

He went on. Molly was sitting quite still, looking into the
shrubbery. He assumed she was listening; but whether she was or not,
he must go on talking. The situation was difficult. Silence would
make it more difficult.

"Now, look at Lord Dreever," he