At the moment of Lord Marshmoreton's arrival, George was reading aletter from Billie Dore, which had come by that morning's post. Itdealt mainly with the vicissitudes experienced by Miss Dore'sfriend, Miss Sinclair, in her relations with the man Spenser Gray.

　　Spenser Gray, it seemed, had been behaving oddly. Ardent towardsMiss Sinclair almost to an embarrassing point in the early stages oftheir acquaintance, he had suddenly cooled; at a recent lunch hadbehaved with a strange aloofness; and now, at this writing, hadvanished altogether, leaving nothing behind him but an abrupt noteto the effect that he had been compelled to go abroad and that,much as it was to be regretted, he and she would probably nevermeet again.

　　"And if," wrote Miss Dore, justifiably annoyed, "after saying allthose things to the poor kid and telling her she was the only thingin sight, he thinks he can just slide off with a 'Good-bye! Goodluck! and God bless you!' he's got another guess coming. Andthat's not all. He hasn't gone abroad! I saw him in Piccadilly thisafternoon. He saw me, too, and what do you think he did? Duckeddown a side-street, if you please. He must have run like a rabbit,at that, because, when I got there, he was nowhere to be seen. Itell you, George, there's something funny about all this."Having been made once or twice before the confidant of thetempestuous romances of Billie's friends, which always seemed to gowrong somewhere in the middle and to die a natural death beforearriving at any definite point, George was not particularlyinterested, except in so far as the letter afforded rathercomforting evidence that he was not the only person in the world whowas having trouble of the kind. He skimmed through the rest of it,and had just finished when there was a sharp rap at the front door.

　　"Come in!" called George.

　　There entered a sturdy little man of middle age whom at first sightGeorge could not place. And yet he had the impression that he hadseen him before. Then he recognized him as the gardener to whom hehad given the note for Maud that day at the castle. The alterationin the man's costume was what had momentarily baffled George. Whenthey had met in the rose-garden, the other had been arrayed inuntidy gardening clothes. Now, presumably in his Sunday suit, itwas amusing to observe how almost dapper he had become. Really, youmight have passed him in the lane and taken him for someneighbouring squire.

　　George's heart raced. Your lover is ever optimistic, and he couldconceive of no errand that could have brought this man to hiscottage unless he was charged with the delivery of a note fromMaud. He spared a moment from his happiness to congratulate himselfon having picked such an admirable go-between. Here evidently, wasone of those trusty old retainers you read about, faithful,willing, discreet, ready to do anything for "the little missy"(bless her heart!). Probably he had danced Maud on his knee in herinfancy, and with a dog-like affection had watched her at herchildish sports. George beamed at the honest fellow, and felt inhis pocket to make sure that a suitable tip lay safely therein.

　　"Good morning," he said.

　　"Good morning," replied the man.

　　A purist might have said he spoke gruffly and without geniality.

　　But that is the beauty of these old retainers. They make a point ofdeliberately trying to deceive strangers as to the goldenness oftheir hearts by adopting a forbidding manner. And "Good morning!"Not "Good morning, sir!" Sturdy independence, you observe, as befitsa free man. George closed the door carefully. He glanced into thekitchen. Mrs. Platt was not there. All was well.

　　"You have brought a note from Lady Maud?"The honest fellow's rather dour expression seemed to grow a shadebleaker.

　　"If you are alluding to Lady Maud Marsh, my daughter," he repliedfrostily, "I have not!"For the past few days George had been no stranger to shocks, andhad indeed come almost to regard them as part of the normaleveryday life; but this latest one had a stumbling effect.

　　"I beg your pardon?" he said.

　　"So you ought to," replied the earl.

　　George swallowed once or twice to relieve a curious dryness of themouth.

　　"Are you Lord Marshmoreton?""I am.""Good Lord!""You seem surprised.""It's nothing!" muttered George. "At least, you--I mean to say . . .

　　It's only that there's a curious resemblance between you and oneof your gardeners at the castle. I--I daresay you have noticed ityourself.""My hobby is gardening."Light broke upon George. "Then was it really you--?""It was!"George sat down. "This opens up a new line of thought!" he said.

　　Lord Marshmoreton remained standing. He shook his head sternly.

　　"It won't do, Mr. . . . I have never heard your name.""Bevan," replied George, rather relieved at being able to rememberit in the midst of his mental turmoil.

　　"It won't do, Mr. Bevan. It must stop. I allude to this absurdentanglement between yourself and my daughter. It must stop atonce."It seemed to George that such an entanglement could hardly be saidto have begun, but he did not say so.

　　Lord Marshmoreton resumed his remarks. Lady Caroline had sent himto the cottage to be stern, and his firm resolve to be stern lenthis style of speech something of the measured solemnity and carefulphrasing of his occasional orations in the House of Lords.

　　"I have no wish to be unduly hard upon the indiscretions of Youth.

　　Youth is the period of Romance, when the heart rules the head. Imyself was once a young man.""Well, you're practically that now," said George.

　　"Eh?" cried Lord Marshmoreton, forgetting the thread of hisdiscourse in the shock of pleased surprise.

　　"You don't look a day over forty.""Oh, come, come, my boy! . . . I mean, Mr. Bevan.""You don't honestly.""I'm forty-eight.""The Prime of Life.""And you don't think I look it?""You certainly don't.""Well, well, well! By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I camewithout my pouch.""Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village.""The same I smoke myself.""Quite a coincidence.""Distinctly.""Match?""Thank you, I have one."George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast.

　　"What was I saying?" said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortablecloud. "Oh, yes." He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch ofembarrassment. "Yes, yes, to be sure!"There was an awkward silence.

　　"You must see for yourself," said the earl, "how impossible it is."George shook his head.

　　"I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I'm bound to say I can'tsee that."Lord Marshmoreton recalled some of the things his sister had toldhim to say. "For one thing, what do we know of you? You are aperfect stranger.""Well, we're all getting acquainted pretty quick, don't you think?

　　I met your son in Piccadilly and had a long talk with him, and nowyou are paying me a neighbourly visit.""This was not intended to be a social call.""But it has become one.""And then, that is one point I wish to make, you know. Ours is anold family, I would like to remind you that there wereMarshmoretons in Belpher before the War of the Roses.""There were Bevans in Brooklyn before the B.R.T.""I beg your pardon?""I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way.

　　You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want tofind them.""I have never heard of Brooklyn.""You've heard of New York?""Certainly.""New York's one of the outlying suburbs."Lord Marshmoreton relit his pipe. He had a feeling that they werewandering from the point.

　　"It is quite impossible.""I can't see it.""Maud is so young.""Your daughter could be nothing else.""Too young to know her own mind," pursued Lord Marshmoreton,resolutely crushing down a flutter of pleasure. There was no doubtthat this singularly agreeable man was making things very difficultfor him. It was disarming to discover that he was really capitalcompany--the best, indeed, that the earl could remember to havediscovered in the more recent period of his rather lonely life. "Atpresent, of course, she fancies that she is very much in love withyou . . . It is absurd!""You needn't tell me that," said George. Really, it was only thefact that people seemed to go out of their way to call at hiscottage and tell him that Maud loved him that kept him from feelinghis cause perfectly hopeless. "It's incredible. It's a miracle.""You are a romantic young man, and you no doubt for the momentsuppose that you are in love with her.""No!" George was not going to allow a remark like that to passunchallenged. "You are wrong there. As far as I am concerned, thereis no question of its being momentary or supposititious or anythingof that kind. I am in love with your daughter. I was from the firstmoment I saw her. I always shall be. She is the only girl in theworld!""Stuff and nonsense!""Not at all. Absolute, cold fact.""You have known her so little time.""Long enough."Lord Marshmoreton sighed. "You are upsetting things terribly.""Things are upsetting me terribly.""You are causing a great deal of trouble and annoyance.""So did Romeo.""Eh?""I said--So did Romeo.""I don't know anything about Romeo.""As far as love is concerned, I begin where he left off.""I wish I could persuade you to be sensible.""That's just what I think I am.""I wish I could get you to see my point of view.""I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes upsuch a lot of the foreground."There was a pause.

　　"Then I am afraid," said Lord Marshmoreton, "that we must leavematters as they stand.""Until they can be altered for the better.""We will say no more about it now.""Very well.""But I must ask you to understand clearly that I shall have to doeverything in my power to stop what I look on as an unfortunateentanglement.""I understand,""Very well."Lord Marshmoreton coughed. George looked at him with some surprise.

　　He had supposed the interview to be at an end, but the other madeno move to go. There seemed to be something on the earl's mind.

　　"There is--ah--just one other thing," said Lord Marshmoreton. Hecoughed again. He felt embarrassed. "Just--just one other thing,"he repeated.

　　The reason for Lord Marshmoreton's visit to George had............