He had nothing but admiration for that young woman;
there had been daring in her conquest of Frida Tancred, there were
ingenuity and determination in the final elopement. Was it possible
that he was piqued at the insignificance of the part she had
assigned to him? She had left him to settle up the sordid accounts
while she ran away with the lady. He had got to say to Colonel
Tancred, "Colonel Tancred, I am not your daughter's seducer and
abductor; I am only a miserable accessory after the fact." In other
words, Miss Chatterton had reminded him that he was too late.

Too late indeed, it seemed. Whether or not Miss Chatterton's faith
in him had failed her at the last moment, but when he came down to
dinner that evening he found that she had been beforehand with him;
there was nothing left for him to do.

The Colonel looked up smiling from a telegram. "News from St.
Pancras. Miss Chatterton is carrying my daughter off to the
Continent."

"I'm delighted to hear it. It will do her all the good in the
world."

"Yes, yes; I'm glad she should have the opportunity. I made a little
tour on the Continent myself when I was a young man, and I've felt a
brighter fellow for it ever since."

"Really?"

"Yes. One's apt to get into a groove staying at home so much.
There's nothing like rubbing brains with foreigners. It stretches
you out, clears you of all your narrow insular prejudices, brings
you in touch"--Durant quivered; he knew it was coming--"in touch
with fresh ideas. I don't know how you feel about it, but six months
of it was enough to convince me that there's no place like England,
and no people like English people, and no house like my own. As for
Frida, a very little goes a long way with Frida; she'll be sick of
it in six weeks, but she'll settle down all the better for the
change."

"You think so?"

"I do. She may be a little unsettled at first. Her poor mother was
just the same--restless, restless. But she settled down."

The Colonel made no further allusion to his daughter's absence. He
was presently disturbed about another matter, bustling about the
room, wondering, questioning, and exclaiming, "I have lost my little
meteorological chronicle? Has anybody seen my little meteorological
chronicle? Now, where did I have it last? I wonder if I could have
left it with my other papers in Frida's room?"

But Frida's room, the room where she did all her father's writing,
and her own reading and dreaming when she ha