ent after a visit to
England, whereas men are glad to get back."

"Now, what can you possibly know about colonial girls, Mr Musgrave,
you, who are only just out from England yourself?"

He smiles slightly, and does not attempt to answer this question.

"How old are you?" he says at length.

Mona favours him with an astonished stare, and colours a little. She
does not know whether to laugh or to be angry, to answer or to snub him;
and in fact, such a question from a perfect stranger would amply justify
the latter course. But she only says--

"Guess."

"Twenty-four."

"Oh, Charlie told you, or somebody did."

"Upon my honour they didn't. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"H'm! A discontented age. Everybody is discontented at twenty-four.
But you--well, at whatever age, you always will be."

"You are not a flattering prophet, I doubt if you are a true one."

"Time will show."

"You seem great at drawing deductions and wonderfully confident in their
accuracy."

"Perhaps. Human beings are like books; some are made to be read, while
others are made apparently to serve no purpose whatever. But all _can_
be read."

"And I?"

"A very open page. As, for instance, at this moment, the subject of
your thoughts is my unworthy self. You are speculating how at my time
of life I come to take up a berth usually occupied by raw youngsters,
and mystifying yourself over my record in general; though, womanlike,
you are going to deny it."

"No I am not. There! Womanlike, I am going to do the unexpected, and
prove you no true prophet as to the latter statement. That is exactly
what I was thinking."

"Hallo, Musgrave! Is Mona beginning to give you beans already?" says
Suffield, who re-enters, having returned from his farm duties. "Grace,
where are you?" he proceeds to shout. "Hurry up! It's feeding time."
And then they all adjourn to another room, where the table is laid, and
the party is augmented by a brace of tow-headed youngsters, of eleven
and twelve respectively, who devote their energies to making themselves
a nuisance all round, as is the manner of their kind if allowed to run
wild, finishing up with a bear-fight among themselves on the floor,
after which they are packed off to bed--a process effected, like the
traditional Scotch editor's grasp of the joke, with difficulty.

"And now, Mr Musgrave," says the latter's hostess, when quiet is
restored, "you haven't told me yet. How do you like--"

"Stop ther