to forget it."

"Does one ever forget?" says Margaret coldly. A swift flush has dyed her pale face. "And story or no story, I shall always think that the woman who marries a man without caring for him is a far greater fool than the woman who marries a man for whom she does care."

"After all, I am not thinking of a woman," says Lady Rylton with a shrug. "I am thinking of Maurice. This girl has money; and, of course, she will accept him if I can only induce him to ask her."

"It is not altogether of course!"

"I think it is," says Lady Rylton obstinately.

Miss Knollys shrugs her shoulders.

All at once Mrs. Bethune turns from the window and advances towards
Margaret. There is a sudden fury in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" says she, stopping short before Miss Knollys, and speaking with ill-suppressed rage. "Who is she, that she should refuse him? That little, contemptible child! That nobody! I tell you, she would not dare refuse him if she asked her! It would be too great an honour for her."

She stops. Her fingers tighten on her gown. Then, as suddenly as it grew, her ungovernable fit of anger seems to die checked, killed by her own will. She sinks into the chair behind her, and looks deliberately at Margaret with an air that, if not altogether smiling, is certainly altogether calm. It must have cost her a good deal to do it.

"It is beyond argument," says she; "he will not ask her."

"He shall," says Lady Rylton in a low tone.

Margaret rises, and moves slowly towards one of the open windows; she pauses there a moment, then steps out on to the balcony, and so escapes. These incessant discussions are abhorrent to her, and just now her heart is sad for the poor child who has been brought down here ostensibly for amusement, in reality for business. Of course, Maurice will not marry her—she knows Maurice, he is far above all that sort of thing; but the very attempt at the marriage seems to cover the poor child with insult. And she is such a pretty child.

At this moment the pretty child, with Randal Gower, comes round the corner; she has her skirt caught up at one side, and Miss Knollys can see it is full of broken biscuits. The pulling up of the skirt conduces a good deal to the showing of a lovely little foot and ankle, and Margaret, who has the word "hoyden" still ringing in her ears, and can see Lady Rylton's cold, aristocratic, disdainful face, wishes the girl had had the biscuit in a basket.

"Oh, here is Miss Knollys!" cries Tita, running to her. "We are going to feed the swans" (she looks back at her companion). "He has got some more biscuits in his pockets."

"It's quite true," says Mr. Gower; "I'm nothing but biscuits. Every pocket's full of 'em, and they've gone to dust. I tried to blow my nose a moment ago, but I couldn't. One can't blow one's nose in biscuit."

"Come with us, Miss Knollys—do," says Tita coaxingly.

"I can't. Not now. I can't," says Margaret, who is a little troubled at heart. "Go, dear child, and feed the swans, and take care of her, Randy—take care of her."

"I'll do my best," says Mr. Gower, with much solemnity; "but it's small—very small. As a rule, Miss Bolton takes care of me."

Margaret gives him a last admonitory glance and turns away. In truth, Mr. Gower is but a broken reed to lean upon.

CHAPTER III.

HOW LADY RYLTON SAYS A FEW THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER LEFT UNSAID. HOW "THE SCHEME" IS LAID BEFORE SIR MAURICE, AND HOW HE REFUSES TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT.

In the meantime the conversation in the drawing-room has been going on.

"Of course, if you think you can persuade him," says Mrs. Bethune presently.

"I know I shall. One can always persuade a man where his interests lie. Besides, I have great weight with him. I tell you I shall manage him. I could always manage his father."

A curious expression crosses Mrs. Bethune's face. The present
Baronet may not prove so easy of management as his father!

"Well, I can only wish you success," says she, with a shrug. "By the way, Margaret did not back you up in this scheme as cordially as I deemed possible."

"Margaret is troublesome," says Lady Rylton. "Just when you expect her to sympathize with you, she starts off at a tangent on some other absurd idea. She is full of fads. After all, it would be rash to depend on her. But you, Marian—you owe me much."

"How much? My life's blood?"

Mrs. Bethune lets her hands fall clasped upon her knees, and, leaning over them, looks at her aunt—such a wonderfully young aunt, with her yellow hair and her sparkling eyes! Marian's lips have taken a cynical turn; her smile now is unpleasant.

"What a hideous expression!" says Lady Rylton, shuddering. "You spoil yourself, Marian; you do indeed. You will never make a good marriage if you talk like that. 'Life's blood'!—detestable!"

"I don't desire a good marriage, as you regard it."

Lady Rylton sits suddenly quite upright.

"If you mean marriage with Maurice," says she, "put that out of your head. You must be mad to cherish such a hope. You are both paupers, for one thing, and for the rest, I assure you, my dear, Maurice is not as infatuated about you as you are about him!"

Mrs. Bethune makes a sudden movement; it is slight. Her face darkens. One reading between the lines might at this moment see that she could have killed Lady Rylton with a wondrous joy. Killing has its consequences, however, and she only stands quite quiet, looking at her foe. What a look it is!

"It is you who are mad," says she calmly. "What I meant was that I should probably marry some rich nobody for the sake of his wealth. It would be quite in my line. I should arrange him, form him, bring him into Society, even against Society's will! There is a certain excitement in the adventure. As for Maurice, he is no doubt in your eyes a demigod—in mine," with infinite contempt, "he is a man."

"Well, I hope you will keep to all that," says Lady Rylton, who is shrewd as she is cruel, "and that you will not interfere with this marriage I have arranged for Maurice."

"Why would I interfere?"

"Because you interfere always. You can't bear to see any man love any woman but yourself."

Mrs. Bethune smiles. "A common fault. It belongs to most women. But this girl—you like her?"

"On the contrary, as I have told you, I detest her. Once Maurice has her money safely in his hands, I shall know how to deal with her. A little, ignorant, detestable child! I tell you, Marian, that the time will come when I shall pay her out for her silly insolence towards me."

"She is evidently going to have a good time if Maurice proposes to her."

"He shall propose. Why——" She breaks off suddenly. "Not another word," says she, putting up her hand. "Here is Maurice. I shall speak to him now."

"Shall I stay and help you?"

"No, thank you," says Lady Rylton, with a little knowing grimace.

Seeing it, Marian's detestation grows apace. She rises—and calmly, yet swiftly, leaves the room. Sir Maurice is only crossing the lawn now, and by running through the hall outside, and getting on to the veranda outside the dining-room window, she can see him before he enters the drawing-room.

Gaining the