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been offered him.
    Vera made one or two ineffectual attempts to smooth his ruffled plumage. She was particularly anxious to get him into a good mood. She had one or two requests to make, which in his present frame of mind she knew would be rejected without thought. Her efforts were unavailing.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t potter round,” he growled, when she went into the library on the pretext of tidying away some books which had been left out by some careless guest.
    â€œOh, come here,” he said, as she was going out of the room. “Here’s a bill from Burt’s. How many packets of prepared oats did we have in last week?”
    â€œI forget, dear,” she said.
    â€œSix,” he growled. “Do you know we have never had more than four before?”
    â€œMr. George liked it for breakfast,” she answered.
    â€œMr. George!” he almost shouted. “Don’t mention that man’s name. Why is Bulgered charging 1s. 0½ d. a pound for his beef? It’s monstrous—change the butcher. I wish to goodness you’d show some interest in the conduct of your house, Vera.”
    He scowled at her under his white shaggy brows.
    â€œYou go on as if I was made of money. Practise some sense of economy. My dear girl, before you were married you counted every penny. Imagine they are your mother’s, and count mine.”
    With a shrug, she left him. He was utterly impossible in these moods. She went into the drawing-room wondering how she should approach her lord on the subject which lay uppermost in her mind. A girl sat in one of the windows, reading. She looked up with a smile as Vera entered.
    â€œIsn’t it a bore?” she said. “They’ve just told me that Mr. George has gone back to town. He played such beautiful piquet. Why has he gone?”
    She rose lazily, putting her book down. She was a tall, beautiful girl, of that exquisite colouring which is the English gentlewoman’s heritage. The well-poised head was crowned with a luxurious mass of russet gold hair. Her eyebrows, two delicate lines of jet black, were set over a pair of the loveliest eyes that man ever looked into. At least, so thought many a man who knew her. Even Sir Ralph, self-engrossed and contemptuous, he said, of beauty, had commented upon their liquid loveliness.
    A straight nose, and a firm, rebellious chin, a perfectly calm mouth, completed the picture. As she moved she displayed the grace of her slender figure. Every movement suggested the life of freedom—freedom of field and road—eloquently, as did her complexion of the softening qualities of her native Ireland.
    â€œThe horrible thing about being a poor relation,” she said, as she dropped her strong hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder, “is that one can’t command the friends of one’s rich relations. I should have told Hilary George: ‘You cannot go to London, however pressing your business may be, because my niece Marjorie, wants somebody to play piquet with her.’”
    Vera shook the hand from her shoulder with a scarcely perceptible movement.
    â€œDon’t be silly, Marjorie,” she said a little tartly. “Ralph’s very worried. Hilary has been awfully rude to your uncle.”
    The girl’s eyebrows rose.
    â€œRude?” she repeated. “Why, I thought they were such good friends.”
    â€œHe has been very rude,” she said again. “By the way,” she said, “your man is coming down to-day, isn’t he?”
    The girl’s face flushed. She drew herself up a little.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t say that sort of thing, Vera,” she said. “I do try to be nice to you, and you never lose an opportunity of speaking unkindly.”
    Vera laughed, and strolled across to the piano. “I didn’t know that was unkind,” she said, as she seated herself, and pulled out some music from the rack at her side.
    The girl