gentleman."

"You mean anyone can see it's not designed by an architect?" she asked,
with a laugh so loud that he raised a finger.

He then carefully introduced the subject of hats and advised her to go,
for millinery, to Selfridge. They discussed it at length, and it was
settled by his offering her a hat as a birthday present. She accepted,
of course, with a loud laugh.

Rupert, with his mania for educating and improving young people, had
begun, about a fortnight ago, trying to polish Miss Chivvey. But he had
his doubts as to its being possible; and he was, all the same, beginning
to be a little carried away. She was sometimes (he owned) amusing; and
it was unusual for him to be laughed at. How differently Madeline
regarded him!

However, he drove Moona home to Camden Hill and promised to meet her and
help her to choose a hat.

"But I sha'n't let you interfere too much. What do men know of
millinery?" she asked contemptuously.

"I am sure I know what would suit you," he replied. "You see, you're
very vivid, and very much alive; you stand out, so you really want, if I
may say so, attenuating, subduing, shading."

"Perhaps you would like me to put my head in a bag?"

"No one would regret that more than I should."

"I foresee we're going to quarrel about this hat," she answered. "Now,
Mr. Denison, do let me explain to you, I don't want anything _smart_. I
don't want to look like _Paris Fashions_."

"No? What do you want to look like?"

"Why, artistic, of course! What a blighter you are!"

Rupert winced at this vague accusation. They were nearly at her house
and he put his hand on hers in a way that was rather controlling than
caressing.

"Let me have one little pleasure. Let me choose your hat myself," he
said. He was terrified at the idea of what she might come out in on
artistic grounds. Then she would tell all her friends it was a present
from him! She had no sort of reticence.

"Well, I suppose you must have your own way. Do you really know anything
about it?" she asked doubtfully.

"Rather. Everything!"

They arrived. She jumped out.

"Well, I'll ring you up and tell you when I can go there and meet you.
Good-bye! You _are_ a nut!"

CHAPTER V

A HAPPY HOME

The first six months after his marriage it used to give Nigel a thrill
of gratification and vanity to go home to his house, one of the finest
in Grosvenor Street, and splendidly kept up. Then he had suddenly grown
horribly sick