ld Peter Caithness trod upon the major, and there
was nothing for him to do but to scuttle back to his own brush-heap and
huddle there, squeaking pitifully.

As for Grace Ferrall, she lost no time in tears, but took Agatha
publicly to her bosom, turned furiously on Quarrier in private, and for
the first time in her life permitted herself the luxury of telling him
exactly what she thought of him.

"You had your chance," she said; "but you are all surface! There's
nothing to you but soft beard and manicuring, and the reticence of
stupidity! The one girl for you--and you couldn't hold on to her!
The one chance of your life--and it's escaped you, leaving a tuft of
pompadour hair and a pair of woman's eyes protruding from the golden
dust-heap your father buried you in. Now you'd better sit there and let
it cover your mouth, and try to breathe through your nose. Agatha is
looking for a new sensation; she's tried everything, now she's going to
try you, that's all. She will be an invaluable leader, Howard, and we
shall not yawn, I assure you. But, oh! the chance you've lost, for lack
of a drop of red blood, and a barber to give you the beard of a man!"

Which merely deepened the fear and hatred which Quarrier had entertained
for his pretty cousin from the depths of his silk-wadded cradle. As for
Kemp Ferrall, now third vice-president of Inter-County, he only laughed
with the tolerance of a man in safety; and, looking at Quarrier through
the pickets of the financial fence, not only forgot how close his escape
had been, but, being a busy and progressive young man, began to consider
how he might ultimately extract a little profit from the expensive
tenant of the enclosure.

Grace made the journey to town to express herself freely for Sylvia's
benefit; but when she saw Sylvia, the girl's radiant beauty checked her,
and all she could say was: "My dear! my dear, I knew you would do it!
I knew you would fling him on his head. It's in your blood, you little
jade! you little jilt! you mix of a baggage! I knew you'd behave like
all the women of your race!"

Sylvia held Mrs. Ferrall's pretty face impressed between both her hands,
and looking her mischievously in the eyes, she whispered:

"'Comme vous, maman, faut-il faire?--Eh! mes petits-enfants, pourquoi,
Quand j'ai fait comme ma grand' mere, Ne feriez-vous pas comme moi?'"

"O Lord!" said Mrs. Ferrall, "I'll never meddle again--and the entire
world may marry and take the consequ