red. "You mean they're lovers?"

"_He_ is," Milly smiled; "but not she. She doesn't care for him."

Sir Luke took an interest. "What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing but that she doesn't like him."

Sir Luke kept it up. "Is he all right?"

"Oh he's very nice. Indeed he's remarkably so."

"And he's to be in Venice?"

"So she tells me she fears. For if he is there he'll be constantly
about with her."

"And she'll be constantly about with you?"

"As we're great friends--yes."

"Well then," said Sir Luke, "you won't be four women alone."

"Oh no; I quite recognise the chance of gentlemen. But he won't," Milly
pursued in the same wondrous way, "have come, you see, for me."

"No--I see. But can't you help him?"

"Can't _you?_" Milly after a moment quaintly asked. Then for the joke
of it she explained. "I'm putting you, you see, in relation with my
entourage."

It might have been for the joke of it too, by this time, that her
eminent friend fell in. "But if this gentleman _isn't_ of your
'entourage '? I mean if he's of--what do you call her?--Miss Croy's.
Unless indeed you also take an interest in him."

"Oh certainly I take an interest in him!"

"You think there may be then some chance for him?"

"I like him," said Milly, "enough to hope so."

"Then that's all right. But what, pray," Sir Luke next asked, "have I
to do with him?"

"Nothing," said Milly, "except that if you're to be there, so may he
be. And also that we shan't in that case be simply four dreary women."

He considered her as if at this point she a little tried his patience.
"_You're_ the least 'dreary' woman I've ever, ever seen. Ever, do you
know? There's no reason why you shouldn't have a really splendid life."

"So every one tells me," she promptly returned.

"The conviction--strong already when I had seen you once--is
strengthened in me by having seen your friend. There's no doubt about
it. The world's before you."

"What did my friend tell you?" Milly asked.

"Nothing that wouldn't have given you pleasure. We talked about
you--and freely. I don't deny that. But it shows me I don't require of
you the impossible."

She was now on her feet. "I think I know what you require of me."

"Nothing, for you," he went on, "_is_ impossible. So go on." He
repeated it again--wanting her so to feel that to-day he saw it.
"You're all right."

"Well," she smiled--"keep me so."

"Oh you'll get away from me."

"Keep me, keep me," she simp