n I am
sure you will say I have done quite right.'

A cold sweat broke over George Fordyce, and he was fain to take several
turns between the window and the door to recover himself. He could
almost have laughed aloud at the awful absurdity of the whole situation,
only it had its tragic side too. He felt that his chance was almost
over. He could not expect Liz Hepburn's visit to Bourhill to be barren
of consequences the most serious; but he would wear the mask as long as
possible, and make one more endeavour to save himself. He came back to
the hearth, and, laying his hand hurriedly on the heart of the girl he
loved with all the tenderness that was in him, he said, in that
pleading, winning way so few women could resist,--

'My darling, if I ask you, won't you take Aunt Isabel's advice? I know I
haven't any right yet to dictate to you, even if I wished to do it, but
won't you believe that we only advise what is the very best for you?
Couldn't you, instead of having the girls at Bourhill, send them to some
other country place? It would only cost a very little more.'

'But that wouldn't be the same thing at all,' said Gladys wilfully. 'And
if I were to retract my invitation now, they would never have the same
faith in me again. I would not on any account disappoint them.'

'Even to please me?' he queried, with a slightly injured air.

'Even to please you,' she repeated, in the same wilful tone.

'And will it always be the same?' he asked then. 'Will you never allow
me to have any say in your affairs?'

'I hoped you would help me to do good to people,' she said slowly,
giving utterance for the first time to the feeling of disappointment and
misgiving which sometimes oppressed her when she thought of her relation
towards George Fordyce.

'My dear, you will get all your thanks in one day,' he said dryly. 'I
know the class you have to deal with. They'll take all you have to give
them, and laugh in your face. They have no such quality as gratitude in
them.'

Gladys curled her lips in scorn.

'How unhappy you must be to have so little faith in humankind. That has
not been my experience; but we shall never agree on that point. Shall we
go up-stairs now?'

Her perfect independence of and indifference to his opinion, betrayed in
the careless ease of her manner as she rose from the hearth, exasperated
him not a little.

'No, I am not coming up-stairs,' he answered, as rudely as he dared.

'What shall I say to Mrs. Fo