would be such a relief--if you're sure you don't mind."

"You may say 'Hang Mr. Pixley!' though it is not an expression I am in
the habit of using myself. But please don't begin it with a D."

"Hang Mr. Pixley, and Mr. Pixley's son, and all his intentions!" he
said fervently and with visible relish.

"Yes," she nodded slowly, as though savouring it; and then added, with
a delicious twinkle of the soft brown eyes, "There is something in
that that appeals to me. Jeremiah Pixley is almost too good for this
world. At least--"

"He is absolutely unwholesomely good. My own private opinion is that
he's a disreputable old blackg--I mean whited sepulchre."

"Unwholesomely good!" She nodded again. "Yes,--that, I think, very
fairly expresses him. 'Unco' guid,' we would say up north. But, all
the same, he is Margaret's uncle and guardian and trustee. He is also
the kind of man whom nothing can turn from a line he has once
adopted."

"I know. Pigheaded as a War-Office-mule," he side-tracked hastily.

For she had looked at him with a momentary bristle of enquiry in the
gentle brown eyes, and he remembered, just in time, that her husband
had once held the reins in Pall Mall for half a year, when, feeling
atrophy creeping on, he resigned office and died three months later.

He hastened to add,--"The ordinary Army-mule, you know, is specially