summer wind is stealing languidly. The perfume of the seringas from
the shrubbery beyond, mingled with all the lesser but more delicate
delights of the garden beneath, comes with the wind, and fills the
drawing-room of The Place with a vague, almost drowsy sense of
sweetness.

Mrs. Bethune, with a face that smiles always, though now her very
soul is in revolt, leans back against the cushions of her lounging
chair, her fine red hair making a rich contrast with the pale-blue
satin behind it.

"You think he will marry her, then?"

"Think, think!" says Lady Rylton pettishly. "I can't afford to
_think_ about it. I tell you he _must_ marry her. It has come to the
very last ebb with us now, and unless Maurice consents to this
arrangement----"

She spreads her beautiful little hands abroad, as if in eloquent
description of an end to her sentence.

Mrs. Bethune bursts out laughing. She can always laugh at pleasure.

"It sounds like the old Bible story," says she; "you have an only
son, and you must sacrifice him!"

"Don't study to be absurd!" says Lady Rylton, with a click of her
fan that always means mischief.

She throws herself back in her chair, and a tiny frown settles upon