that they might not feel talkative. She said that she had "enjoyed it all immensely," sitting there in the shade, and that the gardien, who had come back to her, had imparted the most romantic facts about the château. Around some of them she was convinced that Mr. Kent could easily write an historical novel, which she was sure would be deeply interesting, though she never read historical novels herself. Had Mr. Kent and Cynthia any idea of the quantity of pippins grown in the immediate neighbourhood every summer? The gardien had told her that as well. No; it had nothing to do with the château, but it was simply extraordinary, and the bulk of the fruit was converted into cider, and the peasantry got it for nothing. Cider for nothing must be so very nice for them when they couldn't afford the wine, and she had no doubt that it was much more wholesome too, though, personally, she had tasted cider only once, and then it had made her ill.

They drove down the dusty hill listening to her. The girl spoke scarcely at all, and the onus of appearing entertained devolved upon Kent. When the fiacre deposited them at the hotel at last, he drew a sigh in which relief and apprehension mingled. Cynthia followed her mother upstairs, and he caught a glance from her, and smiled his gratitude; but he questioned inwardly what would be the upshot of the announcement that she was about to make. He perceived with some amusement that he was on the verge of an experience of whose terrors he had often read. He was a candidate for a young lady's hand. Yes, it made one nervous. He asked himself for the twentieth time in the past few days if he had been mistaken in supposing that Mrs. Walford over-estimated his eligibility; perhaps he was no worse off than she thought? But even then he quaked, for he had seen too little society since he was a boy to be versed in such matters, and he was by no means ready to make an affidavit that she had encouraged him. What was "encouragement"?

A signal at the entrance to the dining-room was exciting but obscure, and there was no opportunity for inquiries before the ladies took their seats. He anathematised an epergne which to-night seemed more than usually obstructive. Cynthia was in white. He did not remember having seen her in the gown before, and the glimpse of her queenliness shook him. No mother would accord to him so peerless a treasure—he had been mad!

It was interminable, this procession of courses, relieved by glances at a profile down the table. His mouth was dry, and he ordered champagne to raise his pluck. It heated him, without steadying his nerves. The room was like a Turkish bath; yet the curve of cheek that he descried was as pale as the corsage. How could she manage it? He himself was bedewed with perspiration.

He could wait no longer. He went on to the veranda and lit a cigar. He saw Mrs. Walford come out, and, throwing the cigar away, rose to meet her. She was alone. Where was Cynthia? Seeking him? or was her absence designed?

"I hope our excursion hasn't tired you, Mrs. Walford?"

"Oh dear no!" she assured him. She hesitated, but her manner was blithesome. His courage mounted. "Shall we take a turn?" she suggested.

"Mrs. Walford, your daughter has told you what I ... of our conversation this afternoon, perhaps? I haven't many pretensions, but I'm devoted to her, and she is good enough to care a little for me. Will you give her to me and let me spend my life in making her happy?"

She made a gesture of sudden artlessness.

"I was perfectly astonished!" she exclaimed. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I was perfectly astonished when Cynthia spoke to me. I hadn't an idea of it. I—er—I don't know whether I'm particularly obtuse in these affairs—hee, hee, hee!—but I hadn't a suspicion!"

"But you don't refuse?" he begged. "You don't disapprove?"

She waved her hands afresh, and went on jerkily, with a wide, fixed smile:

"I never was more astounded in my life. Of course, I—er—from what we've seen of you ... most desirable—most desirable in many ways. At the same time—er—Cynthia's a delicate girl; she has always been used to every luxury. So few young men are really in a position to justify their marrying."

"My position is this," he said. "I've my profession, and a little money—not much; a thousand pounds, left me by a relative last year. With a thousand pounds behind us, I reckon that my profession would certainly enable us to live comfortably till I could support a wife by my pen alone." Her jaw dropped. He felt it before he turned, and shivered. "I'm afraid you don't think it very excellent?" he murmured.

She was breathing agitatedly.

"It ... I must say—er—I fear her father would never sanction——Oh no; I am sure! It's out of the question."

"A man may keep a wife on less without her suffering, Mrs. Walford. My God! if I thought that Cynthia would ever know privation or distress, do you suppose I would——"

"A wife!" she said, "a wife! My dear Mr. Kent, a man must be prepared to provide for a family as well. Have you—er—any expectations?"

"I expect to succeed," said Kent; "I've the right to expect it. No others."

"May I ask how much your profession brings you in?"

"I sold my novel for a hundred pounds," he answered. "It was my first," he added, as he heard her gasp, "it was my first!... Mrs. Walford, I love her! At least think it over. Let me speak to her again, let me ask her if she is afraid. Don't refuse to consider!"

The pain in his voice was not without an effect on her disgust. She was mercenary, though she did not know it; she was not good-natured, though she had good impulses; she was ludicrously artificial. But she was a woman, and he was a young man. She did not think of her own courtship, for she had been sentimental only when her parents approved—she hadn't "married for money," but her heart had been providentially warmed towards the one young gentleman of her acquaintance who was "comfortably off." She thought, however, of Cynthia, who had displayed considerable feeling in the bedroom an hour ago.

"I must write to her father," she said, in a worried voice. "I really can't promise you anything; I am very vexed at this sort of thing going on without my knowledge—very vexed. I shall write to her father to-night. I must ask you to consider the whole matter entirely indefinite until he comes. Immense responsibility ... immense! I can't say any more, Mr. Kent."

She left him on the veranda. His sensation was that she had shattered the world about him, and that a weighty portion of the ruin was lying on his chest.

CHAPTER IV

When Sam Walford ran over to Dieppe, in obedience to his wife's summons, he said:

"Well, what's this damn nonsense, Louisa, eh? There's nothing in this, you know—this won't do."

"Cynthia is very cut up; you had better tell her so! I'm sure I wish we had waited and gone to Brighton instead.... A lot of bother!"

"An author," he said, with amusement; "what do you do with authors? You do 'find 'em,' my dear!"

"I don't know what you mean," she returned tartly. "I can't help a young man taking a fancy to her, can I? If you're so clever, it's a pity you didn't stop here with her yourself. If you don't think it's good enough, you must say so and finish the matter, that's all. You're her father!"

"I'll talk to her," he declared. "Where is she now? Let's go and see! And where's Mr.— what d'ye call him? What's he like?"

"Mr. Kent. He is a very nice fellow. If he had been in a different position, it would have been most satisfactory. There's no doubt he's very clever—highly talented—the newspapers are most complimentary to him. And—er—of course a novelist is socially—er—he has a certain——"

"Damn it! he can't keep a family on compliments, can he? I suppose he's a bull of himself, eh? Thinks he ought to be snapped at?"

"Nothing