te, and she had cast an appealing, incredulous look
at Clodagh. But Clodagh, in her self-imposed stolidity, had seen
nothing of the expressions round her; and now, as her sister left her
place and crossed the room, the significance of the action went
unnoticed.

For a moment the only sound audible in the room was the cracking of the
fire and Mrs. Asshlin's muffled weeping; but at last, Milbanke,
agonised into action, put out his hand and touched her arm.

"Please do not give way to your feelings, Mrs. Asshlin!" he urged.
"Think--think of Clodagh!"

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Asshlin wiped away the half-dozen tears that had
trickled down her cheek.

"You must forgive me," she murmured. "We Irish take things too much to
heart. It--it brought my own engagement back to me--and of course my
poor Laurence's death. I hope indeed that it will be a very long time
before Clodagh----"

But the words were broken by a clatter from the other side of the
table, as young Laurence Asshlin opportunely knocked one wine-glass
against another. And in the moment of interruption, Clodagh pushed back
her chair and stood up.

"If you don't mind, Aunt Fan," she said, "I think I'll go to bed.
The--the ride has tired me. Good-night!" And without a glance at any
one, she walked out of the room.

But she had scarcely crossed the hall, when a step behind her caused
her to pause; and, looking back, she saw the figure of her cousin, a
pace or two in the rear.

In the half light of the place, the two confronted each other; and
Clodagh lifted her head in a movement that was common to them both.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Asshlin stepped forward.

"'Tisn't true, Clo?" he asked breathlessly.

Clodagh looked at him defiantly and nodded.

"Yes," she said. "'Tis true."

For a moment he stared at her incredulously, then his incredulity drove
him to speech.

"But, Clo," he cried, "he's sixty, if he's a day! And you----"

Clodagh flushed.

"Stop, Larry!" she said unevenly. "Father was nearly sixty."

But Asshlin's sense of the fitness of things had been aroused.

"That's all very well!" he cried. "Uncle Denis was all right for a
father or an uncle. But to marry! Clo, you're mad!"

Clodagh turned upon him.

"How dare you, Larry?" she cried. "You are horrible! I hate you!"

Her voice caught, and with a sudden passionate gesture she wheeled away
from him and began to mount the stairs.

The action sobered him. With impetuous remorse,