e difficulties of the task.

"Of course," she observed, looking at our young friends who were
talking nonsense at the other side of the lawn, "they must have a
misunderstanding."

"Why, 'of course'," said I, lighting my pipe. "What should you say to
another man?"

"Or another woman?" said Miss Liston.

"It comes to the same thing," said I. (About a volume and a half I
meant.)

"But it's more interesting'. Do you think she'd better be a married
woman?" And Miss Liston looked at me inquiringly.

"The age prefers them married," I remarked.

This conversation happened on the second day of Miss Liston's visit,
and she lost no time in beginning to study her subjects. Pamela, she
said, she found pretty plain sailing, but Chillington continued to
puzzle her. Again, she could not make up her mind whether to have a
happy or a tragic ending. In the interests of a tender-hearted public,
I pleaded for marriage-bells.

"Yes, I think so," said Miss Liston, but she sighed, and I think she
had an idea or two for a heart-broken separation, followed by mutual,
life-long, hopeless devotion.

The complexity of young Sir Gilbert did not, in Miss Liston's opinion,
appear less on further acquaintance; and indeed, I must admit that she
was not altogether wrong in considering him worthy of attention. As I
came to know him better, I discerned in him a smothered
self-appreciation, which came to light in response to the least tribute
of interest or admiration, but was yet far remote from the
aggressiveness of a commonplace vanity. In a moment of indiscretion I
had chaffed him--he was very good-natured--on the risks he ran at Miss
Liston's hands; he was not disgusted, but neither did he plume himself
or spread his feathers. He received the suggestions without surprise,
and without any attempt at disclaiming fitness for the purpose; but he
received it as a matter which entailed a responsibility on him. I
detected the conviction that, if the portrait was to be painted, it was
due to the world that it should be well painted; the subject must give
the artist full opportunities.

"What does she know about me?" he asked, in meditative tones.

"She's very quick; she'll soon pick up as much as she wants," I assured
him.

"She'll probably go all wrong," he said, sombrely; and of course I
could not tell him that it was of no consequence if she did. He would
not have believed me, and would have done precisely what he proceeded
to do, and that