de me for years," she said, laughing.
"Well, half a loaf is better than no bread. We didn't hit it off exactly
the last time we saw each other, did we? Suppose we try again: should we
get on any better, do you think?"

"We might try," said Wyvis slowly.

He was pale and grave, but, as she saw, not unwilling to make peace.

"All right," she said, holding out her hand to him with easy, audacious
grace, "let us try then. I own I was aggravating--own in your turn that
you were tyrannical now and then! You witness that he owns up,
Janetta--why, the girl's gone! Never mind: give me a kiss now we are
alone, Wyvis, and take me to the Riviera to-morrow if you want to save
my life."

Wyvis kissed his wife and promised to do what she asked him, but he did
not look as if he expected to have an easy task.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MAKING AMENDS.

"It is pleasant to be home again," said Margaret.

For two years she had not seen the Court. For two year's she and her
parents had roamed over the world, spending a winter in Egypt or Italy,
a summer in Norway, a spring or autumn at Biarritz, or Pau, or some
other resort of wealthy and idle Englishmen. These wanderings had been
begun with the laudable object of weaning Margaret's heart away from
Wyvis Brand, but they had been continued long after Margaret's errant
fancy had been chided back to its wonted resting place. The habit of
wandering easily grows, and the two years had slipped away so pleasantly
that it was with a feeling almost of surprise that the Adairs reckoned
up the time that had elapsed since they left England. Then Margaret had
a touch of fever, and began to pine for her home; and, as her will was
still law (in all minor points, at least), her parents at once turned
homeward, and arrived at Helmsley Court in the month of May, when the
woods and gardens were at their loveliest, bright with flowers, and
verdant with the exquisite green of the spring foliage, before it
becomes dusty and faded in the summer-heat.

"It is pleasant to be at home again," said Margaret, standing at the
door of the conservatory one fair May morning and looking at the great
sweep of green sward before her, where elm and beech trees made a
charming shade, and beds of brightly-tinted flowers dotted the grass at
intervals. "I was so tired of foreign towns."

"Were you, dear? You did not say so until lately," said Lady Caroline.

"I did not want to bring you and papa home until you were ready