asks Rylton, naturally bewildered.

"Nothing--only--she is going to advise you for your good. Shall I,"
smiling at him in her beautiful way, and laying one hand upon his
breast--"shall I advise you, too?"

"Yes, yes," says Rylton; he takes the hand lying on his breast and
lifts it to his lips. "Advise me."

"Ah, no!" She pauses, a most eloquent pause, filled with a long deep
glance from her dark eyes. _"There, go!"_ she says, suddenly pushing
him from her.

"But your advice?" asks he, holding her.

"Pouf! as if that was worth anything." She looks up at him from
under her lowered lids. "Well, take it. My advice to you is to come
to the rose-garden as soon as possible, and see the roses before
they fade out of all recognition! _I_ am going there now. You know
how I love that rose-garden; I almost live there nowadays."

"I wish I could live there too," says Rylton, laughing.

He lifts her hand again and presses it fondly to his lips.
Something, however, in his air, though it had breathed devotion,
troubles Mrs. Bethune; she frowns as he leaves her, and, turning
into a side-path the leads to the rose-garden, gives herself up a
prey to thought.

* * * * *

Rylton, with a shrug, goes toward the room where Marian had told him
his mother was awaiting him. He could very readily (as Lady Rylton
had not formally requested his presence) have stayed away, but long
experience has driven into him the knowledge that when his mother
wants anything, all the delays and subterfuges and evasions in the
world will not prevent her having it. To get it over, then, as soon
as possible is the chief thing. And, after all, he is so far happy
in that he knows what the immediate interview is to be about. That
little ridiculous girl--not half a bad little girl--but----

It is with quite a resigned air that he seats himself on the lounge,
and agrees with himself to make his mother happy by letting her talk
to him uninterruptedly for ten minutes.

"Women like to talk," says Sir Maurice to himself, as he sits on the
lounge where Marian had just now sat. He finds consolation in his
mother's poodle, who climbs on his knees, giving herself up a
willing prey to his teasing.

"Maurice, you are not attending," says Lady Rylton at last, with a
touch of serious anger.

"I am indeed--I am, I assure you," says Maurice, looking up. "If I'm
not, it's your poodle's fault; she is such a fascinating creature."

As he says this he make