liberately come to the conclusion that the
stage is immoral. How, then, can I avoid condemning my sister's
lamentable choice of a career?"

Lionel rose, pale with anger, forgetful of his errand.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said with absurd dignity. Of course, he
ought to have laughed and talked about the garden. "I am sorry you
persist in such a hasty condemnation of a noble profession----"

"And of Miss Blair," she put in with a sly jealousy.

"If you like," he flung out. "I can not allow any one--even you--to
criticize her. I regret, therefore, that I shall not be able to stop the
night."

"I was not aware," she said with an unmoved countenance, "that I had
given you an invitation."

Lionel was so taken aback that he sat down abruptly in his chair. Then
the humor of the situation came to his rescue and he laughed outright.
The lady, too, though she made a gallant effort to control herself,
failed miserably. In a moment the pair of them were united by the most
perfect bond (save one) that earth knows--the mutual appreciation of a
jest.

Lionel, as the waves of their mirth broke gently into ripples and
presently dissolved in the foam of smiles, realized how foolish he had
been. When he set out first for The Quiet House he had taken it for
granted that Beatrice had telegraphed to bespeak her sister's
hospitality. It was only too clear now that she had not done this,
either through forgetfulness, pressure of work, or procrastination. He
had simply assumed that Miss Arkwright would receive him as her guest,
and the conversation had been too briskly controversial to allow him to
think. Now he was doubly annoyed at his clumsiness: he had behaved like
a boor and had sacrificed the interests of Beatrice to an ill-timed
chivalry. His cue was submission at all costs for Beatrice's sake.

"I apologize," he said with a frank good humor. "I thought your sister
had already engaged your good offices on my behalf." He noticed
hopefully that Miss Arkwright's eyes still twinkled with amusement.
Clearly she was not all prunes and prisms.

"I have heard nothing," said the lady much more sweetly. "No doubt she
meant to write, and forgot. Poor Beatrice! She was always harum-scarum."

To a sensitive man this might have implied a lack of confidence in the
protege of Beatrice, and Lionel moved uneasily.

"I hope," he said humbly, "that you will forgive me. I trust that you
will allow me to prove my good faith--that----"

"I sha