An observer might have imagined Dick possessed of a just grievance against his tailor; it took him such a while to get into his coat. He was doing so to the accompaniment of "Rule, Britannia," pursed-up lips fashioning it. The difficulty with his coat was one of his own creation; he was thoroughly enjoying the situation and prolonging it as long as possible. The whistling served as a sort of slow music to his little drama.

There was not even a whisper of Masters' leaving England. Indeed, it was pretty certain that had he been going abroad, Dick would have been on hand as his travelling companion. He was, as he termed it, rubbing it in. Brothers are awful brutes at times.

"Dick! Dear Dick!"

She had come to him affectionately; had put her arms round his neck.

"Hold on there! Don't go slobbering on my front again; it is all limp and wet now. I don't want to get inflammation of the lungs through wearing a damp shirt! You are too liberal with your grief, Sis; keep some of it for your handkerchief."

"I'm not crying. Dick—Dick—dear, dear old Dick." She was whispering in his ear in an artful way that she had never known him able to resist. "You know you would not like to make me miserable—your own loving sister——"

He was grinning from ear to ear. The humour of the situation appealed to him as he interrupted:

"None of your blarney; none of your soft sawder! What's the meaning of this sudden overflowing, spring-up-in-a-moment affection? I was an idiot, fool, stupid, a few minutes ago."

"Dear Dick!"

"Yes, that's all very well. But what is it? This sudden discovery of my value means you want something."

She put her mouth close to his ear and whispered again. A very low whisper; he only just caught it:

"Don't let him go, Dick."

"Let who go?"

She knew that to be an evasion; that he was wilfully misunderstanding her. Just shook him and whispered earnestly:

"Please!"

Dick was magnanimous; he could afford to be. His deep-laid scheme had proved successful.

"Well, I'll see what I can do. But what are you going to do about the Chantrelles?"

A change came over her face; every scrap of softness seemed to fade out of it. In a voice full of determination she said:

"The Chantrelles will leave here before the day is over!"

"Rule, Britannia" once more thrilled the air as the whistler caught his sister in his arms.

"You're a brick, old girl." He kissed her. "Things will pan out all right after all. Now, shall I stay and bear a hand, or would you rather handle the precious couple all by yourself?"

There was a steely glitter in her eye—it boded ill for the absent ones—as she answered vindictively:

"I think I can manage alone!"

"I think you can, old girl!... Do you know," he added with mock severity, "when you look a little demon like that, I don't somehow fancy trusting my friend into your keeping. One good turn——; you know the rest. I believe I should be carrying that out by preventing his marrying you."

"He hasn't asked me yet!"

She spoke saucily with sparkling eyes; yet with a rosy blush on her face.

"That's true; perhaps he won't! There's hope for the poor beggar after all! He came all the way from the Mediterranean framing words how he should ask you to marry him, and he had a narrow escape on the dinner party night. Perhaps you killed him then by your nice behaviour; killed any desire he might have had to marry you." Then he added maliciously: "Let's hope so, for his sake."

"Dick! You are a perfect horror!"

"It was 'Dear Dick' a minute ago! But there—you're as uncertain as the weather."

The shot went home; told in the flushed, shamefaced look; Dick inquired:

"What are you going to say to the Chantrelles?"

"That is my business. They will travel up by the afternoon train. Your business is to go to Prince Charlie, and see that he comes here to-night to dinner."

He sobered down in a moment at that; answered seriously:

"No, old girl, that is out of the question. Nothing I could say would induce him to that. He simply hates the Chantrelles."

"I have told you—they won't be here."

"Even the knowledge of their absence wouldn't make him come to your house, after the way in which you behaved to him last time."

"All the same," she said defiantly, "a place shall be set for him at table."

"Look here, old girl, I'm willing to help you, but don't make a pocket idiot of yourself. I tell you nothing I could say would induce him to——"

"Well, you can get him to go for a walk, I suppose, can't you?"

"You know we always go for a walk late every afternoon—weather permitting or otherwise."

"Very well; this afternoon walk eastwards. You know the seat at the end of the Parade?"

"You mean, that one by the wall, which Gracie calls Our Seat?"

"Yes. Make your way there; walk to that, sit down and wait—till I come."

It dawned on him then: her intent. Admiration of her diplomacy found vent in the strains of "Rule, Britannia."

"Don't say anything, Dick. Promise me that. Not a word to Prince Charlie about—about—anything."

"But when you turn up at the seat, what am I to do? I suppose it will be a case of two's company, three's none?"

"Oh, you can go and pick shells and seaweed on the beach!"

"What! In the dark? Is thy brother a dog that he should do these things? I'll find my way back by myself. You think he'll see you home?"

"You can rely on it he will."

Mrs. Seton-Carr had confidence in herself. Perhaps it was as well; few things are won without that.

"All right. We shall be there about five o'clock."

"So shall I."

"Right.... There are the Chantrelles coming up the road; I'll clear out the back way. If they are going, I'd rather be spared saying farewells. I might introduce some choice expressions of my opinion of them."

"Leave that to me!"

Mabel spoke with bitter sweetness. One glance at her face convinced Dick that he could do so with safety.

"Right!"

He disappeared through the back as the Chantrelles entered by the front door. Mrs. Seton-Carr was waiting for them. She smiled pleasantly, iced pleasantry, and invited them into the drawing-room. Seated, she faced them. There, wasted no time in preliminaries; struck out:

"There is something I want to clear up, Mr. Chantrelle."

She fixed that gentleman with her eyes. On her face was a pleasant smile; it never faded once during the interview.

"Yes?"

"About Mr. Masters," she continued. "There has been something unpleasant—so far as he is concerned—said of the voyage home you all made from the Mediterranean. Did you ever see him attempt to make love to your sister?"

"Great Scott! No. He seemed to like her about as little as Amy liked him."

From the corner of her eye, Mrs. Seton-Carr could see that her dear friend Amy had grown very white—Amy had a quicker brain than had her brother—but she never lost her hold on Percy's face; went on:

"Did he bear the reputation of a lady-killer? Of making love to every woman on board?"

"My dear Mrs. Carr!" Percy laughed heartily as he replied, "I never saw him talk to a woman! He had the reputation on board of being a woman-hater. He was a perfect bear!"

Amy glanced at her brother reproachfully, meaningly—too late. Besides, he was looking at his hostess and not at her; her telegraphic communication was without effect. It was a pity, a thousand pities, from Amy's point of view. She had to sit quiet and listen.

"Thanks so much," Mrs. Seton-Carr was saying sweetly. "You see, I was told all that, and it was not a pleasant thing to be told. You must understand that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Masters shortly—but I think you knew that?"

Percy's face fell; all the merriment dropped out of it. A moment's silence ensued; not what could fairly be labelled a dull moment. Then Percy broke it; said slowly:

"No; I had not the slightest idea of such a thing."

"Is that possible? Surely your sister told you! She says in this letter that when you heard of my forthcoming marriage to Mr. Masters you grew white. Although why," she laughed, "you should grow white, I cannot conceive. Our pleasant intercourse has always been quite platonic, hasn't it? That was its charm; one has so few friends. You know that?"

"I—yes. Now I know it."

"I am sorry to say it, Mr. Chantrelle, to you; you always have behaved as a gentleman to me; but this letter," she held it out to him, "written by your sister whilst on the boat, is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. The work of a woman absolutely unfitted—in my opinion—for decent society!"

Brother and sister were on their feet in a moment. The atmosphere seemed red-hot to them. They had had unpleasant moments in their somewhat adventurous career, but this was the worst. Their hostess's words were as the lashes of a whip.

Chantrelle muttered something about breaking the laws of hospitality; a weak effort to stand up for his sister. It failed half-way. Then he abandoned her to her fate.

"Take me away, Percy," his sister gasped. "I will not stay to be further insulted."

"Miss Chantrelle has forestalled me." Mrs. Seton-Carr still spoke quietly, still retained her seat. "That is precisely what I was about to ask you to do, Mr. Chantrelle. One can lock up from a thief, but a liar—a deliberate, scheming, unscrupulous liar—there is no guarding against. Your sister, by her trickery, came near separating me from the man who loves me, the man I love. I should not forgive it in fifty lifetimes."

Miss Chantrelle made an effort to speak. Her lips moved, but for once in her life she was unable to fashion words. She was a woman who trusted to a well-oiled tongue for squeezing out of the tightest places. It failed her now; the effort ended in a gasp.

"Go and pack your things, Amy."

Her brother spoke sternly. The white-faced woman almost staggered out of the room without a word. She was terribly upset; none of us like to be found out in our little lapses.

"Read the letter, Mr. Chantrelle; I request you to. It will convince you that I am not more than necessarily bitter——"

"There is no need. Your word is sufficient."

Mr. Chantrelle bowed; had changed his tactics and was making the best of his position. His sister had led him into this; he would stand by her up to a point, but at the same time he would do what he could to save his own skin. There was no sense in needless sacrifice.

"I know you well enough, know you could only behave as you are doing with good reason," he continued. "I am heartily sorry. Amy is my sister; I am bound to remember that whatever she has done." He held out his hand. "Good-bye. I can only ask you to acquit me personally of any—but there; explanations are perhaps better left alone. Good-bye—it will be well for us not to meet again."

A note of feeling vibrated in his voice. A mere listener to the actual words would have detected no false ring in them. Would, perhaps, have admired him for the staunchness he exhibited towards his misguided sister.

But his hostess stood face to face with him, and she saw that in his eye—lack of sincerity—which discounted the ingenuousness of his speech. Still Mrs. Seton-Carr agreed with it—in substance.

"Good-bye. Yes, it is certainly better so.... My maid shall go across to the station for a porter and truck. They will be here by the time you have packed."

They were. The Chantrelles left. Journeyed to London by the train Dick had mentioned; the most crestfallen couple travelling in it.

It was the last of them.