all,
the subtle, indefinable suggestion of femininity which unknowably
pervaded his surroundings,--all these enthralled young Nisbet beyond
expression, and awed him immeasurably, into the bargain. He was, as
usual, very clear in his own mind as to what he wanted, and that was the
younger Miss Rathbawne, but, for the first time in his experience, the
means at his command did not seem to be sufficient unto the end. For the
younger Miss Rathbawne was, very evidently, not the sort of triumph
which is achieved by recourse to an imposingly ample bank-account, nor
yet by two months' loyalty to the exigencies of the training-table. And
this was February, and he had known her since July, and, altogether, it
was highly discouraging. Unwittingly, young Nisbet heaved a sigh so
profound and so pitiable that Mrs. Wynyard immediately proffered her
sympathy.

"Poor, dear Mr. Nisbet! I never heard a more pathetic sigh. Whatever is
the matter?"

"He's sleepy," put in Dorothy. "He always is, after talking with me for
a whole hour."

"I was just thinking," protested young Nisbet helplessly.

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy, "that's it, is it? Then pray don't discourage
him, Aunt Helen. He's really getting into some very good habits, of
late."

"Why, _Dorothy_!" said Mrs. Rathbawne, digging her chin reproachfully
into her black velvet collar, "how _can_ you say such things? Mr. Nisbet
will think you have had _no_ bringing up at all. And _do_ sit up
straight, my dear!"

"And if you don't stop nagging, O most conscientious of parents,"
retorted Dorothy, with her nose in the air, "Mr. Nisbet will think you
bring people up by throwing them down!"

"And slang! _Dorothy!_"

"I always think," said Mrs. Wynyard, "that Dorothy should have had a
fairy godmother, to promise that every time she uttered a word of slang
a pearl should pop out of her mouth. We should have all been wearing
triple strings down to our knees within a week after she learned to
talk."

"That settles it!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If you are going to side with the
enemy, Aunt Helen, there is nothing left for me to do but to beat a
retreat. Come on, Mr. Nisbet, there is rest for the weary in the
conservatory--that is, unless you want another cup of tea?"

In the conservatory the air was heavy with the moist, sweet smell of
earth and moss, and faintly vibrant with the tiny plash of water,
dripping from a pile of rocks into the circular central pool, wherein
fat gold-fish went id