f and joy there played like a flying
fish the thought: 'Was he meaning to call in any case? Was he on his way
here?'

They talked about Aunt Hannah, whom Twemlow had seen that morning and
who was improving rapidly. But he agreed with Leonora that the old
lady's vitality had been irretrievably shattered. Then there was a
pause, followed by some remarks on the weather, and then another pause.
Bran, after watching them attentively for a few moments as they stood
side by side near the French window, rose up from off his haunches, and
walked gloomily away.

'Bran, Bran!' Twemlow cried.

'It's no use,' she laughed. 'He's vexed. He thinks he's being neglected.
He'll go to his kennel and nothing will bring him out of it, except
food. Come into the house. It's going to rain again.'

* * * * *

'Well,' the visitor exclaimed familiarly.

They were seated by the fire in the drawing-room. Leonora was removing
her gloves.

'Well?' she repeated. 'And so you still think Milly ought to be allowed
to go on the stage?'

'I think she _will_ go on the stage,' he said.

'You can't imagine how it upsets me even to think of it.' Leonora seemed
to appeal for his sympathy.

'Oh, yes, I can,' he replied. 'Didn't I tell you the other night that I
knew exactly how you felt? But you've got to get over that, I guess.
You've got to get on to yourself. Mr. Myatt told me what he said to
you----'

'So Uncle Meshach has been talking about it too?' she interrupted.

'Why, yes, certainly. Of course he's quite right. Milly's bound to go
her own way. Why not make up your mind to it, and help her, and
straighten things out for her?'

'But----'

'Look here, Mrs. Stanway,' he leaned forward; 'will you tell me just why
it upsets you to think of your daughter going on the stage?'

'I don't know. I can't explain. But it does.'

She smiled at him, smoothing out her gloves one after the other on her
lap.

'It's nothing but superstition, you know,' he said gently, returning her
smile.

'Yes,' she admitted. 'I suppose it is.'

He was silent for a moment, as if undecided what to say next. She
glanced at him surreptitiously, and took in all the details of his
attire--the high white collar, the dark tweed suit obviously of American
origin, the thin silver chain that emerged from beneath his waistcoat
and disappeared on a curve into the hip pocket of his trousers, the
boots with their long pointed toes. His heavy mo