``You're not sickly?'' inquired the general sharply.
``You look like a good solid woman--thin but wiry.
Ever been sick? I must look into your health. That's
a point on which I must be satisfied.''

A wave of anger swept through her, restoring her
strength. She was about to speak--a rebuke to his
colossal impudence that he would not soon forget.
Then she remembered, and bit her lips.

``I don't ask you to decide to-night,'' pursued he,
hastening to explain this concession by adding: ``I
don't intend to decide, myself. All I say is that I am
willing--if the goods are up to the sample.''

Mildred saw her stepfather and her mother watching
from just within the conservatory door. A movement
of the portiere at the door into the hall let her
know that Darcy, the butler, was peeping and listening
there. She stood up, clenched her hands, struck them
together, struck them against her temples, crossed the
room swiftly, flung herself down upon a sofa, and burst
into tears. Presbury and his wife entered. Siddall
was standing, looking after Mildred with a grin. He
winked at Presbury and said:

``I guess we gave her too much of that wine. It's
all old and stronger than you'd think.''