Lady Elizabeth watched Jim with curiosity. The voice from the drawing-room grew louder:

    "Tout casse, tout passé—"

deeper grew Jim\'s voice as he softly sang the refrain. Quite abruptly Lady Elizabeth began:

"She\'s a fine woman, Jim."

As she spoke, Jim caught sight of Diana crossing to the piano in smiling approbation as the song ceased, and answered:

"Diana?"

"Diana! Nonsense!" Again she watched Jim\'s face, but its grave serenity gave no sign. "I mean Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones. She\'s quite the type that men admire, is she not?"

"That\'s the most offensive thing that one woman can say about another," Jim laughingly replied, as he turned from watching the group in the music-room—"isn\'t it, Auntie?"

"Not at all." Lady Elizabeth fidgeted; he was making it exceedingly difficult, she thought, as he leaned over her, his laughing eyes teasing her. "The sensible view of things never appeals to you, Jim; so I have hesitated to remind you that Sadie Jones is exceedingly rich."

"Did you notice how deferential I was, Aunt?" Jim lightly interrupted. "Why, if you tell me more, I shall scarcely dare to speak to her."

He drew Lady Elizabeth\'s arm through his; he knew what was coming. It amused him, and it also irritated him a little, but he felt very tender towards his aunt. All the boyish hurt had been forgotten. Her great endurance of Henry\'s conduct, her indomitable resolution to keep him well placed in the eyes of men, deeply touched him. After all, in her devotion to Henry there was a magnificent capacity for self-surrender. During the past winter Jim had grown strangely attached to his aunt, and a great pity for the inevitable tragedy of her life lay deep in his thoughts of the proud old woman. He patted her hand caressingly.

With almost a note of despair she said, "And I invited her here for this visit especially for you, Jim."

"Do you think she would care to add to her already abundant collection of names?"

He would not be serious, but Lady Elizabeth took up his question literally.

"I think she would be very glad to ally herself with one of the great families of England. Besides," she continued, as there was no reply, "such a marriage would put you in a position to be of great service to Henry and the family."

Jim distinctly saw Henry\'s purpose in this appeal. It sickened him—this cold, devilish selfishness that made his cousin use all things as a means to further his own ends. His spirit rose in revolt against his aunt, who, he now saw, was seriously asking so grave a sacrifice of him. How lightly they played with human destinies! Then he conquered his sudden passion. He spoke in a tone of affectionate banter.

"You dear Aunt—Henry and the family are among the earliest of my recollections. I was taught Henry and the family before my letters. If I found a stray dog, or made a toy, I was forced to hand it over to Henry. Why, I remember I gave up a brilliant offer to enter commercial life—far better suited to my small fortune than an army career—because it would not lend dignity to Henry and the family." The hard tone he was struggling to keep down crept into his voice. "The woman I marry will have a right to expect more of me than a profound respect for her money and a laudable desire to promote Henry and the family."

Lady Elizabeth perceived the suppressed irritation, and was for a moment touched by Jim\'s reproaches.

"One must pay something for the glory and privilege of belonging to a great family."

"Don\'t you think we pay too great a price, dear Aunt?"

"I have never shirked the sacrifices."

The worn, tremulous face looked up at Jim with eyes that were unconscious confessors of the bitter struggle her life had been. He leaned towards her and gently took her hand.

"No, dear Aunt, you haven\'t. You deny yourself everything. Don\'t you think I can see that? You stint yourself to the point of shabbiness: why, your wardrobe is positively pitiful! And Mabel—the child has had no proper education, no advantages; she has never been anywhere, nor seen anything, nor had anything—Henry needed the money."

"We have been as generous to you and Mabel as we could, Jim. We must keep up the dignity and position of the head of the family." Like a war-horse sniffing the powder of battle-fields, at the words "family" and "dignity of its head," Lady Elizabeth\'s courage rose. In the moonlight Jim could plainly see the determined look grow on her face until it formed granite-like lines. The fox might eat her vitals, but she would not whimper. The torch of the family was the light of her declining years, as it had been of her youth. It was useless to argue further, Jim told himself. The music sounded a new dance. It was an opportune moment to escape.

"You\'ve been a dear—I\'m not complaining, only I don\'t think we have the right to sacrifice an amiable lady on the altar of our obligations." He drew his aunt towards him and leaned over the seat. "Besides, I have no desire to marry at present, so we won\'t speak of this again, will we?" As he spoke he kissed her on the forehead. "God bless you! And now I must be off to help Di with the dancing."

Lady Elizabeth rose. It was impossible to resist his tender charm, but his evident indifference to her wishes vexed her. He crossed to the casement and Lady Elizabeth called:

"There\'s an occasional streak of stubbornness in you, Jim."

He smilingly called back. "I think it runs in the family, doesn\'t it, Aunt?"

As he went into the house, he passed Henry and several of the men busily discussing the condition of the Yeomanry, and the Relief Fund that was doing such excellent work. Here Henry proved himself of worth—of his interest in the work there could be no doubt.

As Lady Elizabeth stood alone in the garden, she was conscious that her recent interviews with Jim had been most unsatisfactory. He had a way of not taking the traditions of her life seriously; he discussed and dismissed them lightly. She knew that Henry would be annoyed at Jim\'s indifference to this fortune within his grasp, and she suspected that there was a cause unknown to her for Henry\'s nervous and upset condition.

She had no inclination to return to the dance; instead, she crossed to the seat under the great oak-tree, and drew her lace scarf close about her. The garden was quite empty. In the distance the yew-trees, like a line of ghostly, fantastic figures, seemed pregnant with sinister forebodings. She shivered; it was growing slightly cold. She could hear the dancers, and from the card-players in the house came sounds of more life and mirth. Her recent desire to be alone deserted her—the living warmth of the life of the crowds within her reach attracted her. The sadness of the moaning wind in the trees she could dispel by returning to her guests—she would do so and assist Diana in her duties. As she started to leave the rose enclosure, Henry with Sir John came through the open casement.

She noticed the strained look on Henry\'s face as he said, "No, no, I haven\'t done it yet. But we\'ll prepare a statement in good time—leave it to me. I\'m getting tired of the word Fund—the demands of the work have been so incessant."

They reached Lady Elizabeth. Henry\'s look quickly told her that he wished to be alone. She came to his assistance as she said:

"Don\'t you believe him, Sir John. He really thinks of nothing else. But won\'t you join the dancers? I\'m sure Diana will need you."

Henry quickly added, "Do, and forget the Fund for a moment." As Sir John disappeared he muttered, "And let me forget it."

Lady Elizabeth heard the last words and wondered. The ugly horns on his brows showed the irritable state of his mind.

"Well," he quietly said, "what did Jim say to the American widow? It isn\'t often that a man without a title gets a chance like that." There was a moment\'s silence. Lady Elizabeth would have preferred to have this conversation at another time; her mind was anxious about Henry\'s recent words—what did they forebode? But Henry settled himself in a big chair, and she saw that he was anxious to learn the result of her interview with Jim.

"He declines positively," she answered.

Then the passion he had been fighting to keep under broke loose. He rose and began pacing the walk.

"Not an atom of consideration for me—eh? In the hopeless struggle I make to live up to the traditions of my race?" Henry could always work himself up into a great burst of self-pity.

"Jim is an anarchist in his talk, but an angel at heart. He always ends by doing the right thing."

This defence of Jim caused Henry to stop in his walk. That his mother should advocate the goodness of Jim was a new victory for his cousin.

"Jim likes to play the saint, confound him," he barked, "but waking or sleeping, he never takes off his halo."

Lady Elizabeth crossed to him. "He says he has no desire to marry at present."

"That\'s the sickly sentimental pose of the man who loves a woman beyond his reach," Henry answered.

Like a flame of illumination the innuendo of his words brought their meaning to Lady Elizabeth. She remembered so much and yet so little in Jim\'s actions of late, but all tended towards a horrible suspicion. She could still see Jim\'s face as he watched Diana earlier in the evening. It was not the face of a lover in the usual sense. It was a face g............