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Mrs. Blunt’s toleration was exhausted.

“Be off with you!” she said sternly, pointing a forefinger at the door.

By great good fortune Agatha found Lord Thrapston at home. Drawing a footstool beside his chair, she sat down. Her agitation was past, and she wore a gravely business like air.

“Grandpapa,” she began, “I have got something to tell you.”

“Go ahead, my dear,” said the old gentleman, stroking her golden hair. Her father had curls like that when he was a boy.

“Something dreadful I’ve done, you know. But you won’t be very angry, will you?”

“We’ll see.”

“You oughtn’t to be, because you’re not very good yourself, are you?” and she first glanced up into his burnt-out old eyes and then pressed her lips on his knotted lean old hand.

“Aggy,” said he, “I expect you play the deuce with the young fellows, don’t you?”

Agatha laughed softly, but a frown succeeded.

“That’s just it,” she said. “Now, you’re to listen and not interrupt, or I shall never be able to manage it. And you’re not to look at me, grandpapa.”

The narrative–that thrice-told tale–began. As the comments of Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Blunt were omitted, those of Lord Thrapston may well receive like treatment, more especially as they tended not to edification; but before his granddaughter had finished her story the old man had sworn softly four times and chuckled audibly twice.

“I knew there was a girl in that temple, soon as Calder told me,” said he.

“But you didn’t know who it was. Oh, and Calder doesn’t?”

“Not he. Well, you’ve made a pretty little fool of yourself, missie. What are you going to do now?”

“That’s what you’ve got to tell me.”

“I? Oh, I dare say. No, no; you got into the scrape and you can get out of it. And—” He suddenly recollected his duties. “Look here, Agatha, I must–hang it, Agatha, I shouldn’t be doing my duty as–as a grandfather if I didn’t say that it’s a monstrous disgraceful thing of you to have done. Yes, d—-d disgraceful;” and he took a pinch of snuff with an air of severe virtue.

“Yes, dear; but you shouldn’t swear, should you?”

Lord Thrapston felt that he had spoilt the moral effect of his reproof, and, without dwelling further on that aspect of the subject, he addressed his mind to the more practical question. The outcome, different as the source was, was the same old verdict.

“We must tell Calder, my dear. It isn’t right to keep him in the dark.”

“I can’t tell him. Why must he be told?”

“Well,” said Lord Thrapston, “it’s just possible, Aggy, that he may have something to say to it, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind what he says,” declared Agatha.

“Eh? Why, I thought you were so fond of him.”

“So I am.”

“And as you’re going to marry him

“I never said I was going to marry him. I only said he might be engaged to me, if he liked.”

“Oho! So this young Merceron—-“

“Not at all, grandpapa. Oh, I do wish somebody would help me!”

Lord Thrapston rose from his seat.

“You must do what you like,” he said. “I’m going to tell Calder.”

“Oh, why?”

“Because,” he answered, “I’m a man of honor.”

Before the impressive invocation of her grandfather’s one religion, Agatha’s opposition collapsed.

“I suppose he must be told,” she admitted mournfully. “I expect he’ll never speak to me again, and I’m sure Mr. Merceron won’t;” and she sat on the footstool, the picture of dejection.

Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate a solemn truth.

“Aggy,” said he, shaking his finger at her, “in this world you can’t have your fun for nothing.” But then he spoilt it by adding regretfully, “More’s the pity!” and off he hobbled to the club, intent on finding Calder Wentworth.

For some time after he went, Agatha sat on her stool in deep thought. Then she rose, sat down at the writing-table, took a pen, and began to bite the end of it. At last she started to write:

“I don’t know whether I ought to write or not, but I must tell you how it happened. Oh, don’t think too badly of me! I came down just because I had heard so much about the Court and I wanted to see it, and I came as I did with Nettie Wallace just for fun. I never meant to say I was a dress-maker, you know; but people would ask questions and I had to say something. I never, never thought of you. I thought you were about fifteen. And you know–oh, you must know–that I met you quite by accident, and was just as surprised as you were. And the rest was all your fault. I didn’t want to come again; you know I refused ever so many times; and you promised you wouldn’t come if I came, and then you did come. It was really all your fault. And I’m very, very sorry, and you must please try to forgive me, dear Mr. Merceron, and not think me a very wicked girl. I had no idea of coming every evening, but you persuaded me. You know you persuaded me. And how could I tell you I was engaged? You know you never asked me. I would have told you if you had. I am telling Mr. Wentworth all about it, and I don’t think you ought to have persuaded me to meet you as you did. It wasn’t really kind or nice of you, was it? Because, of course, I’m not very old, and I don’t know much about the world, and I never thought of all the horrid things people would say. Do, please, keep this quite a secret. I felt I must write you just a line. I wonder what you’re thinking about me, or whether you’re thinking about me at all. You must never think of me again. I am very, very unhappy, and I do most earnestly hope, dear Mr. Merceron, that I have not made you unhappy. We were both very much to blame, weren’t we? But we slipped into it without knowing. Good-by. I don’t think I shall ever forget the dear old Pool, and the temple, and–the rest. But you must please forget me and forgive me. I am very miserable about it and about everything. I think we had better not know each other any more, so please don’t answer this. Just put it in the fire and think no more about it or me. I wanted to tell you all this when I saw you to-day, but I couldn’t. Good-by. Why did we ever meet?”