ore which her lids drooped in embarrassment. He came forward eagerly
to lead the way into the drawing-room, where Madame sat reading by an
open window, and a sofa had been pulled forward and banked with cushions
in readiness for the invalid. She smiled a welcome as the little
procession entered the room, and looked on with an amused scrutiny while
Cornelia shook out the cushions, skilfully altering their position so
that the blue brocade should form the background for Elma's fair head.
She did not attempt to rise, but her words were kindly enough, if a
trifle patronising.

"Well, dear, and how are you now after your rest? We must take care of
you, and not let you get overtired. Sure you are comfortable? You look
too sweet in that gown! I shall never have the heart to wear it after
you. Isn't it wicked that a woman is obliged to live on after her
complexion has faded? I could bear any affliction better than watching
myself growing uglier every day. ... I should have a little pillow
tucked into your back. ... Sure you won't feel the draught? That's
right! And you really must leave us, Miss Briskett? Couldn't possibly
stay to dinner? I suppose it _would_ be unkind! The dog-cart is
waiting for you. I told them to have it round by seven. Geoffrey will
drive you home, of course. After your adventure this afternoon we
should not be happy to leave you to a groom. He'll see you safely to
the door, and report to us on your safe arrival."

Geoffrey's face clouded involuntarily. He had mapped out a much more
interesting programme for himself, deciding to slip upstairs and dress
for dinner so early that he should be able to descend the moment that
his mother was securely shut into her own room. Madame's evening
toilette was a matter of three-quarters of an hour at least, during
which time he would have Elma all to himself--to speak to, to look at,
to make her look at him. Lovely creature! He had not realised how
beautiful she was, and so sweet, and gentle, and shy. What a marvel to
meet a _shy_ girl in these days of loud-voiced, smoking, tailor-made
women! A man may appreciate the society of a twentieth-century damsel
whom he designates as a "rattling good sort," but he wants a womanly
woman for his wife. Elma was womanliness personified--a sweet pink-and-
white, softly-curved creature, whose eyes regarded the masculine
creature with an unspoken tribute of homage. "You are so big!" they
seemed to say; "I