elt his long and flawless life almost in the nature of a
rebuke if not an affront. He was too obtrusively good for this world.
One could not but feel that if he had been cut off in his youth, and
buried under a very white marble slab and an appropriate inscription,
both he and the world would have been far more comfortably
circumstanced. And John Graeme devoutly wished he had been so
favoured, for, in that case, he could neither have been Margaret's
uncle, trustee, nor guardian, and it is possible that there would also
have been no Charles Svendt Pixley to trouble the course of his own
true love.

But of Charles Svendt I have no harsh word to say. He could not help
being his father's son, and one must not blame him for the
unavoidable. And, in most respects, he was as unlike his worthy parent
as circumstances permitted.

He was on the Stock Exchange and doing well there. He had very
comfortable rooms near St. James's Square, and enjoyed life in his own
way and at his own not inconsiderable expense. When Margaret Brandt
was at home, however, he was much at his father's house in Melgrave
Square.

He made no pretence to unco' guidness whatever. He subscribed to
nothing outside the House, with two exceptions--the Dogs' Home at
Battersea, and the Home of Rest for Aged Horses at Acton--signs of
grace both these offerings, I take it!

To all other demands he invariably replied,--"Can't burn the candle
at both ends, my dear sir. The governor charitables for the whole
family. He'll give you something if you'll let him head the list and
keep it standing."

No, we have no fault to find with Charles Svendt. Time came when he
was weighed and not found wanting.

Graeme and he had run across one another occasionally--at the
Travellers' Club and elsewhere--but their acquaintance had never
ripened to the point of introduction till that night at the
Whitefriars' dinner. After that they were on nodding terms, but not
much more, until--well, until later.

So, though there was hope in his heart, born of Lady Elspeth's
approval and quiet suggestings, John Graeme was still somewhat
doubtful as to Margaret Brandt's feelings towards him, and quite at a
loss how to arrive at a more exact knowledge of them.

Too precipitate an advance might end in utter rout. And opportunities
of approach were all too infrequent for his wishes.

Their chance meetings were rare and exquisite pleasures,--to be looked
forward to with an eagerness that h