is shoulders, and
then he has the--well, the cheek, I call it, to lecture me about Captain
Granet. He does talk about Captain Granet in the most absurd manner, you
know, mother."

"He may have his reasons," Lady Conyers observed.

Geraldine turned her head and looked at her mother.

"Now what reasons could he have for not liking Captain Granet and
suspecting him of all manner of ridiculous things?" she asked. "Did
you ever know a more harmless, ingenuous, delightful young man in your
life?"

"Perhaps it is because you find him all these things," Lady Conyers
suggested, "that Hugh doesn't like him."

"Of course, if he is going to be jealous about nothing at all--"

"Is it nothing at all?"

Lady Conyers raised her head from her knitting and looked across at
her daughter. A little flush of colour had suddenly streamed into
Geraldine's face. She drew back as though she had been sitting too near
the fire.

"Of course it is," she declared. "I have only known Captain Granet for
a very short time. I like him, of course--every one must like him who
knows him--but that's all."

"Do you know," Lady Conyers said, a moment later, "I almost hope that it
is all."

"And why, mother?"

"Because I consider Hugh is a great judge of character. Because we have
known Hugh since he was a boy, and we have known Captain Granet for
about a week."

Geraldine rose to her feet.

"You don't like Captain Granet, mother."

"I do not dislike him," Lady Conyers replied thoughtfully. "I do not see
how any one could."

"Hugh does. He hinted things about him--that he wasn't honest--and then
forbade me to tell him. I think Hugh was mean."

Lady Conyers glanced at the clock.

"You had better go and get ready, dear, if you have promised to be at
Ranelagh at half-past ten," she said. "Will you just remember this?"

"I'll remember anything you say, mother," Geraldine promised.

"You're just a little impulsive, dear, at times, although you seem so
thoughtful," Lady Conyers continued. "Don't rush at any conclusion about
these two men. Sometimes I have fancied that there is a great well
of feeling behind Hugh's silence. And more than that--that there is
something in his life of which just now he cannot speak, which is
keeping him living in great places. His abstractions are not ordinary
ones, you know. It's just an idea of mine, but the other day--well,
something happened which I thought rather queer. I saw a closed car turn
into St. Jam