old-fashioned sugar-tongs in her hand, and was
balancing them lightly for a moment. 'It is quite true, mother,' she
said decisively, as she dropped the sugar into the shallow teacup.

Mrs. Ross looked up from her knitting.

'My dear Geraldine, I do hope you are mistaken,' she returned
anxiously.

Mrs. Ross had also been a very pretty woman, and even now she retained a
good deal of pleasant middle-aged comeliness. She was somewhat stout,
and had grown a little inactive in consequence; but her expression was
soft and motherly, and she had the unmistakable air of a gentlewoman. In
her husband's eyes she was still handsomer than her daughters; and Dr.
Ross flattered himself that he had made the all-important choice of his
life more wisely than other men.

'My dear mother, how is it possible to be mistaken?' returned her
daughter, with a shade of reproof in her voice. 'I told you that I had a
long talk with Edith. Michael, I have made your tea; I think it is just
as you like it--with no infusion of tannin, as you call it'; and she
turned her head slowly, so as to bring into view the person she was
addressing, and who, seated at a little distance, had taken no part in
the conversation.

He was a thin, pale man, of about five or six and thirty, with a reddish
moustache. As he crossed the room in response to this invitation, he
moved with an air of languor that amounted to lassitude, and a slight
limp was discernible. His features were plain; only a pair of clear blue
eyes, with a peculiarly searching expression, distinguished him from a
hundred men of the same type.

These eyes were not always pleasant to meet. Certain people felt
disagreeably in their inner consciousness that Captain Burnett could
read them too accurately--'No fellow has a right to look you through and
through,' as one young staff officer observed; 'it is taking a liberty
with a man. Burnett always seems as though he is trying to turn a fellow
inside out, to get at the other side of him'--not a very eloquent
description of a would-be philosopher who loved to dabble a little in
human foibles.

'I have been listening to the Blake discussion,' he said coolly, as he
took the offered cup. 'What a wonderful woman you are, Gage! you have a
splendid talent for organisation; and even a thorough-paced scandal has
to be organised.'

'Scandal!--what are you talking about, Michael?'

'Your talent for organisation, even in trifles,' he returned promptly.
'I am