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“And I shall be deeply grieved that he has so utterly misunderstood my friendly interest in his welfare; and I shall be highly indignant after he has–in effect, after he has–“

“But not until afterward?” said Mr. Erwyn, holding up a forefinger. “Well, I have told you their redness is fatal to good resolutions.”

“–after he has astounded me by his seventh avowal. And I shall behave in precisely the same manner the eighth time he recurs to the repugnant subject.”

“But the ninth time?” said Mr. Erwyn.

“He has remarkably expressive eyes,” Miss Allonby stated, “and really, Mr. Erwyn, it is the most lovable creature when it raves about my flint-heartedness and cutting its poor throat and murdering every man I ever nodded to!”

“Ah, youth, youth!” sighed Mr. Erwyn. “Dear child, I pray you, do not trifle with the happiness that is within your grasp! Si jeunesse savait–the proverb is somewhat musty. But we who have attained the St. Martin’s summer of our lives and have grown capable of but a calm and tempered affection at the utmost–we cannot but look wistfully upon the raptures and ignorance of youth, and we would warn you, were it possible, of the many dangers whereby you are encompassed. For Love is a deity that must not be trifled with; his voice may chaunt the requiem of all which is bravest in our mingled natures, or sound a stave of such nobility as heartens us through life. He is kindly, but implacable; beneficent, a bestower of all gifts upon the faithful, a bestower of very terrible gifts upon those that flout him; and I who speak to you have seen my own contentment blighted, by just such flippant jesting with Love’s omnipotence, before the edge of my first razor had been dulled. ‘Tis true, I have lived since in indifferent comfort; yet it is but a dreary banquet where there is no platter laid for Love, and within the chambers of my heart–dust-gathering now, my dear!–he has gone unfed these fifteen years or more.”

“Ah, goodness!” sighed Miss Allonby, touched by the ardor of his speech. “And so, you have loved Mother all of fifteen years?”

“Nay, split me–!” said Mr. Erwyn.

“Your servant, sir,” said the voice of Lady Allonby; “I trust you young people have adjusted matters to your satisfaction?”

III

“Dear madam,” cried Miss Allonby, “I am overjoyed!” then kissed her step-mother vigorously and left the room, casting in passage an arch glance at Mr. Erwyn.

“O vulgarity!” said Lady Allonby, recovering her somewhat rumpled dignity, “the sweet child is yet unpolished. But, I suppose, we may regard the matter as settled?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Erwyn, “I think, dear lady, we may with safety regard the matter as settled.”

“Dorothy is of an excitable nature,” she observed, and seated herself upon the divan; “and you, dear Mr. Erwyn, who know women so thoroughly, will overlook the agitation of an artless girl placed in quite unaccustomed circumstances. Nay, I myself was affected by my first declaration,”‘

“Doubtless,” said Mr. Erwyn, and sank beside her. “Lord Stephen was very moving.”

“I can assure you,” said she, smiling, “that he was not the first.”

“I’ gad,” said he, “I remember perfectly, in the old days, when you were betrothed to that black-visaged young parson–“

“Well, I do not remember anything of the sort,” Lady Allonby stated; and she flushed.

“You wore a blue gown,” he said.

“Indeed?” said she.

“And–“

“La, if I did,” said Lady Allonby, “I have quite forgotten it, and it is now your manifest duty to do likewise.”

“Never in all these years,” said Mr. Erwyn, sighing, “have I been able to forget it.”

“I was but a girl, and ’twas natural that at first I should be mistaken in my fancies,” Lady Allonby told him, precisely as she had told Simon Orts: “and at all events, there is nothing less well-bred than a good memory. I would decline to remain in the same room with one were it not that Dorothy has deserted you in this strange fashion. Whither, pray, has she gone?”