o her own heart, and declare
herself free from this old and hateful entanglement.

In these circumstances his grandmother was not a good companion for him.
In her continual glorification of the self-will of the Trelyons, and her
stories of the wild deeds they had done, she was unconsciously driving
him to some desperate thing against his better judgment.

"Why, grandmother," he said one day, "you hint that I am a nincompoop
because I don't go and carry off that girl and marry her against her
will. Is that what you mean by telling me of what the men did in former
days? Well, I can tell you this, that it would be a deal easier for me
to try that than not to try it. The difficulty is in holding your hand.
But what good would you do, after all? The time has gone by for that
sort of thing. I shouldn't like to have on my hands a woman sulking
because she was married by force. Besides, you can't do these mad freaks
now: there are too many police-courts about."

"By force? No," the old lady said. "The girls I speak of were as glad to
run away as the men, I can tell you, and they did it, too, when their
relations were against the match."

"Of course, if both he and she are agreed, the way is as smooth now as
it was then: you don't need to care much for relations."

"But, Harry, you don't know what a girl thinks," this dangerous old lady
said. "She has her notions of duty, and her respect for her parents, and
all that; and if the man only went and reasoned with her he would never
carry the day; but just as she comes out of a ball-room some night, when
she is all aglow with fun and pleasure, and ready to become romantic
with the stars, you see, and the darkness, then just show her a
carriage, a pair of horses, a marriage license, and her own maid to
accompany her, and see what will happen! Why, she'll hop into the
carriage like a dicky-bird: then she'll have a bit of a cry, and then
she'll recover, and be mad with the delight of escaping from those
behind her. That's how to win a girl, man! The sweet-hearts of these
days think too much, that's about it: it's all done by argument between
them."

"You're a wicked old woman, grandmother," said Trelyon with a laugh.
"You oughtn't to put such notions into the head of a well-conducted
young man like me."

"Well, you're not such a booby as you used to be, Harry," the old lady
admitted. "Your manners are considerably improved, and there was much
room for improvement. You're growin