t
some more biscuits in his pockets."

"It's quite true," says Mr. Gower; "I'm nothing but biscuits. Every
pocket's full of 'em, and they've gone to dust. I tried to blow my
nose a moment ago, but I couldn't. One can't blow one's nose in
biscuit."

"Come with us, Miss Knollys--do," says Tita coaxingly.

"I can't. Not now. I can't," says Margaret, who is a little troubled
at heart. "Go, dear child, and feed the swans, and take care of her,
Randy--take care of her."

"I'll do my best," says Mr. Gower, with much solemnity; "but it's
small--very small. As a rule, Miss Bolton takes care of me."

Margaret gives him a last admonitory glance and turns away. In
truth, Mr. Gower is but a broken reed to lean upon.

CHAPTER III.

HOW LADY RYLTON SAYS A FEW THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER LEFT
UNSAID. HOW "THE SCHEME" IS LAID BEFORE SIR MAURICE, AND HOW HE
REFUSES TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT.

In the meantime the conversation in the drawing-room has been going
on.

"Of course, if you think you can persuade him," says Mrs. Bethune
presently.

"I know I shall. One can always persuade a man where his interests
lie. Besides, I have great weight with him. I tell you I shall
manage him. I could always manage his father."

A curious expression crosses Mrs. Bethune's face. The present
Baronet may not prove so easy of management as his father!

"Well, I can only wish you success," says she, with a shrug. "By the
way, Margaret did not back you up in this scheme as cordially as I
deemed possible."

"Margaret is troublesome," says Lady Rylton. "Just when you expect
her to sympathize with you, she starts off at a tangent on some
other absurd idea. She is full of fads. After all, it would be rash
to depend on her. But _you_, Marian--you owe me much."

"How much? My life's blood?"

Mrs. Bethune lets her hands fall clasped upon her knees, and,
leaning over them, looks at her aunt--such a wonderfully young aunt,
with her yellow hair and her sparkling eyes! Marian's lips have
taken a cynical turn; her smile now is unpleasant.

"What a hideous expression!" says Lady Rylton, shuddering. "You
spoil yourself, Marian; you do indeed. You will never make a good
marriage if you talk like that. 'Life's blood'!--_detestable!"_

"I don't desire a good marriage, as _you_ regard it."

Lady Rylton sits suddenly quite upright.

"If you mean marriage with Maurice," says she, "put that out of your
head. You must be mad to cher