rranging a bike ride," beamed her father.

To complete the confusion of his more creditable daughter, this
improbable announcement was accompanied by an unabashed wink, directed
at his less creditable child apparently for the superfluous purpose of
assuring her he jested.

That evening Mr. Walkingshaw began to be discussed by his
fellow-citizens in earnest.

CHAPTER VI

"You're not drinking, Andrew," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "Go on, fill up
your glass. Man, do you call that filling a glass? Here's the way."

Leaning across the table, he poured in the port till it stood above the
rim, with the steady hand of a man of forty. He was hardly as young as
that yet, but he was amazingly rejuvenated. It could not possibly last,
Andrew said to himself; still, he felt dreadfully uncomfortable.

"You seem very anxious I should drink," he said gloomily, looking
askance at his brimming glass.

"You're so dull, my boy," his father answered genially. "There's no life
in you at all. You for a lover! You ought to have come back looking
happy. One would think she'd broken it off."

It was the evening of the same day. Andrew had returned from his visit
to the Berstouns shortly after Mrs. Donaldson departed, and as Frank was
dining out, he and his father sat alone together over their wine.

"I've no reason to feel particularly happy," he said.

"Eh?" cried his father. "Nothing gone wrong, is there?"

"I don't understand these women."

"No," said Mr. Walkingshaw, with jovial candor, "you'd be a bit of a
stick with the sex, I can well imagine. You haven't the cut of a ladies'
man: but it's all a matter of practice, my boy; just a matter of
learning experience as you go along. What did she say to you?"

Andrew was divided in mind. This tone exasperated him beyond measure. He
felt inclined to leave the room. Yet, on the other hand, he judged
himself ill-used by his betrothed, and when he had any ground of
grievance, he had the pleasant habit of venting his complaints as long
as his audience would listen to him. To-night the habit proved even
stronger than his distaste for his high-spirited parent.

"She was queer," said he.

"They're all that," replied Mr. Walkingshaw knowingly. "The great thing
is not to mind what they say. It's what they do that counts: and she'd
be affectionate, I suppose, eh?"

"I've never gone in for much of your spooning and kissing and that sort
of thing," began Andrew.

"The more fool you!" int