was another and a very different
question.

"He is a very handsome boy, Uncle Loftus, and full of fun and mischief.
He is clever, but I'm afraid not too industrious. We hope that he will
settle down and realise that he has his way to make; but he is young, as
you say. Mr Spence might not have patience with him."

"Oh, Spence would have nothing to do with him at first. He would have
to obey the head of his department. Send Stephen to me to talk it over.
Men understand business; girls, you know--pretty girls like you--think
only of bonnets. That's it, Hope, isn't it? Quite right, too. Get a
becoming one, my dear, and come and see me in it when it is bought. Now
I must be off. Glad to have seen you all Pretty little nest at the top
of the tree! Hope it may be prophetic. Hard on my legs, though. Stiff
in the knees. Not so young as I was, my dears--not so young as I was."

He went toddling out of the door, smiling and chuckling to himself, and
as he descended the staircase the echo of disjointed phrases reached the
girls' ears: "Top of the tree! Ha, ha! Not so young as I was.
Prophetic--eh! Hope it is prophetic."

"Poor little mannikin!" said Philippa pitifully. "I feel like a mother
to him. He daren't even be kind in his wife's presence, he is so kept
down. How I do detest to see women snub their husbands and fathers!
When I marry I intend to look up to my husband and think him the finest
man in the world. I'd rather be ruled by some one stronger and wiser
than myself than have it all my own way. _My_ husband is going to be
master of his own house, or I'll know the reason why."

She was leaning over the banisters as she spoke, listening to the
departing footsteps of the "mannikin" as he trotted along the stone
entrance-hall; but as she finished speaking she drew back with a gasp of
dismay, for a cadaverous countenance was raised to hers from the landing
immediately beneath, and the tenant who had objected to Hope's
practising stood for a moment buttoning his coat, then slowly took his
way downstairs. With one bound, as it seemed, the girls were back in
their own sitting-room, confronting each other with horrified, scarlet
faces.

"The Hermit!"

"The author creature who writes all day and sits up all night. Do you
suppose he _heard_?"

"Heard! My dear, he has ears; how could he help it? If you _will_ air
your ideas as to your future husband on the landing of public buildings,
what can you