said Mary, with a gasp, "whether they really were
unattached. I thought that perhaps you might...you might..."

"It was very nice of you to think of me, Mary darling," said Anne,
smiling the tight cat's smile. "But as far as I'm concerned, they are
both entirely unattached."

"I'm very glad of that," said Mary, looking relieved. "We are now
confronted with the question: Which of the two?"

"I can give no advice. It's a matter for your taste."

"It's not a matter of my taste," Mary pronounced, "but of their merits.
We must weigh them and consider them carefully and dispassionately."

"You must do the weighing yourself," said Anne; there was still the
trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth and round the half-closed
eyes. "I won't run the risk of advising you wrongly."

"Gombauld has more talent," Mary began, "but he is less civilised than
Denis." Mary's pronunciation of "civilised" gave the word a special and
additional significance. She uttered it meticulously, in the very front
of her mouth, hissing delicately on the opening sibilant. So few people
were civilised, and they, like the first-rate works of art, were mostly
French. "Civilisation is most important, don't you think?"

Anne held up her hand. "I won't advise," she said. "You must make the
decision."

"Gombauld's family," Mary went on reflectively, "comes from Marseilles.
Rather a dangerous heredity, when one thinks of the Latin attitude
towards women. But then, I sometimes wonder whether Denis is altogether
serious-minded, whether he isn't rather a dilettante. It's very
difficult. What do you think?"

"I'm not listening," said Anne. "I refuse to take any responsibility."

Mary sighed. "Well," she said, "I think I had better go to bed and think
about it."

"Carefully and dispassionately," said Anne.

At the door Mary turned round. "Good-night," she said, and wondered
as she said the words why Anne was smiling in that curious way. It
was probably nothing, she reflected. Anne often smiled for no apparent
reason; it was probably just a habit. "I hope I shan't dream of falling
down wells again to-night," she added.

"Ladders are worse," said Anne.

Mary nodded. "Yes, ladders are much graver."

CHAPTER VIII.

Breakfast on Sunday morning was an hour later than on week-days, and
Priscilla, who usually made no public appearance before luncheon,
honoured it by her presence. Dressed in black silk, with a ruby cross as
well as her customary str