dsomest man in the room, strolling up to the
group by the window. "Who is this unfortunate lady? I always feel such
sympathy with the unattractive, as you know."

"Naturally," laughed Mrs. Hart. "The individual in question is a Miss
Mildmay, a plain person and the eldest of four sisters."

"Mildmay? Who are they? I used to know people of that name, and there
were four girls in the family. One of them--her name was Minnie, I
remember--promised to grow up very pretty."

"So she is; Minnie is the third. They are certainly your friends, Mr.
Ratcliff. They are all pretty but the eldest, and all their names begin
with M: Margaret, Miriam, Minnie, and Maud. Absurd, is it not?"

"Somebody had a strong fancy for alliteration. So Miss Mildmay is
plain?"

"Very plain, very dull, very uninteresting," said Mrs. Hart and her
sister in a breath. "Much given to stocking-knitting and good works."

"And good works comprise?" quoth Mr. Ratcliff, interrogatively.

"She sat up every night for a week with Blanche Carter's children when
they had diphtheria, and saved their lives by her nursing," said Elsie
Paine indignantly. "That is the woman that those good people sneer at.
You are not fair to her, Mrs. Hart. She has a sweet face when you come
to know her."

"There, you have put Elsie up," cried mischievous Bertie. "No more peace
for you here, Mrs. Hart. Come out into the garden with me, and postpone
this question in favour of tennis."

The conclave broke up and Mark Ratcliff said and heard no more of
Margaret Mildmay. He betook himself to solitude and cigars, and as he
strode over the breezy downs he wondered what a predilection for
stocking-knitting and good works might signify in the once merry girl,
and if they might be possibly a form of penance for past misdeeds.

"She did behave abominably," he said to himself, flinging a cigar-end
viciously away into a patch of dry grass, which ignited and required
much stamping before it consented to go out. "Yes, she behaved
abominably, and at my time of life I might amuse myself better than in
thinking of a fickle girl. Poor Margaret! stockings and good works--she
might have done as well taking care of me!"

Then he lit another cigar, put up a covey of partridges, remembered how
he used to shoot with Margaret's father, told himself that there was no
fool like an old fool--not referring to Mr. Mildmay in the least--and
took himself impatiently back into the town.

And there he did a