She raised her eyes at length, and looked Sir Philip in the face. What a manly, honest, intelligent face it was! One that a woman might well be proud of in her husband: the face of a man whom she might very safely trust. Janetta thought all this, as she made her answer.

"I am very sorry, Sir Philip, but I cannot be your wife."

"You are answering me too hastily. Think again—take a day, a week—a month if you like. Don't refuse without considering the matter, I beg of you."

Janetta shook her head. "No consideration will make any difference."

"I know that I am not attractive," said her suitor, after a moment's pause, in a somewhat bitter tone. "I have not known how to woo—how to make pretty speeches and protestations—but for all that, I should make, I believe, a very faithful and loving husband. I am almost certain that I could make you happy, Janetta—if you will let me call you so—may I not try?"

"I should not feel that I was doing right," said Janetta, simply.

It was the only answer that could have made Sir Philip pause. He was quite prepared for hesitation and reluctance of a sort; but a scruple of conscience was a thing that he respected. "Why not?" he said, in a surprised tone.

"I have two or three reasons. I don't think I can tell them to you, Sir Philip; but they are quite impossible for me to forget."

"Then I think you would be doing better to tell me," said he, gently. He pulled a chair forward, sat down close to Janetta, and quietly laid his hand upon hers. "Now, what are they—these reasons?" he asked.

Her seat was lower than his chair, and she was obliged to lift her eyes when she looked at him. His face compelled truthfulness. And Janetta was wise enough to know whom she might trust.

"If I speak frankly, will you forgive me?" she said.

"If you will speak frankly, I shall esteem it a great honor."

"Then," said Janetta, bravely, "one of my reasons is this. You are most kind, and I know that you would be always good to me. I might even, as you say, be very happy after a time, but you do not—care for me—you do not love me, and"—here she nearly broke down—"and—I think you love some one else."

Sir Philip made a movement as if to take away his hand; but he restrained himself and grasped hers still more closely.

"And who is it that I am supposed to care for?" he asked, in a light tone.

"Margaret," Janetta answered, almost in a whisper. Then there was a silence, and this time Sir Philip did slowly withdraw his hand. But he did not look angry.

"I see," he said, "you are a friend of hers: you doubtless heard about my proposition to her concerning the Miss Polehampton business."

Janetta looked surprised. "No, I heard nothing of that. And indeed I heard very little from Margaret. I heard a good deal from Lady Caroline."

"Ah, that woman!" cried Sir Philip, getting up and making a little gesture with his hand, expressive of contempt. "She is worldly to the core. Did she tell you why Margaret refused me?"

"I did not know—exactly—that she had. Lady Caroline said that it was a misunderstanding," said Janetta, the startled look growing in her eyes.

"Just like her. She wanted to bring me back. Forgive me for speaking so hotly, but I am indignant with Lady Caroline Adair. She has done Margaret incalculable harm."

"But Margaret herself is so sweet and generous and womanly," said Janetta, watching his face carefully, "that she would recover from all that harm if she were in other hands."

"Yes, yes; I believe she would," he answered, eagerly. "It only needs to take her from her mother, and she would be perfect." He stopped, suddenly abashed by Janetta's smile. "In her way, of course, I mean," he added, rather confusedly.

"Ah," said Janetta, "it is certain that I should never be perfect. And after Margaret!"

"I esteem you, I respect you, much more than Margaret."

"But esteem is not enough, Sir Philip. No, you do not love me; and I think—if I may say so—that you do love Margaret Adair."

Sir Philip reddened distressfully, and bit his lip.

"I am quite sure, Miss Colwyn, that I have no thoughts of her that would do you an injustice. I did love Margaret—perhaps—but I found that I was mistaken in her. And she is certainly lost to me now. She loves another."

"And you will love another one day, if you do not win her yet," said Janetta, with decision. "But you do not love me, and I certainly will never marry any one who does not. Besides—I should have a feeling of treachery to Margaret."

"Which would be quite absurd and unwarrantable. Think of some better reason if you want to convince me. I hope still to make you believe that I do care for you."

Janetta shook her head. "It's no use, Sir Philip. I should be doing very wrong if I consented, knowing what I do. And besides, there is another reason. I cannot tell it to you, but indeed there is a good reason for my not marrying you."

"Has it anything to do with position—or—or money, may I ask? Because these things are immaterial to me."

"And I'm afraid I did not think about them," said Janetta, with a frank blush, which made him like her better than ever. "I ought to have remembered how great an honor you were doing me and been grateful!—no, it was not that."

"Then you care for some one else? That is what it is."

"I suppose it is," said Janetta.

And then a very different kind of blush began—a blush of shame, which dyed her forehead and ears and neck with so vivid a crimson hue that Sir Philip averted his eyes in honest sympathy.

"I'm afraid, then," he said, ruefully, but kindly, "that there's nothing more to be said."

"Nothing," said Janetta, wishing her cheeks would cool.

Sir Philip rose from his chair, and stood for a moment as if not knowing whether to go or stay. Janetta rose too.

"If you were to change your mind——" he said.

"This is a thing about which I could not possibly change my mind, Sir Philip."

"I am sorry for it." And then he took his leave, and Janetta went to her room to bathe her hot face and to wonder at the way in which the whirligig of Time brings its revenges.

"Who would have thought it?" she said to herself, half diverted and half annoyed. "When Miss Polehampton used to lecture me on the difference of Margaret's position and mine, and when Lady Caroline patronized me, I certainly never thought that I should be asked to become Lady Ashley. To take Margaret's place! I have a feeling—and I always had—that he is the proper husband for her, and that everything will yet come right between them. If I had said 'yes'—if I only could have said 'yes,' for the children's sake—I should never have got over the impression that Margaret was secretly reproaching me! And as it is, she may reproach me yet. For Wyvis will not make her happy if he marries her: and she will not make Wyvis happy. And as for me, although he is, I suppose, legally divorced from his wife, I do not think that I could bear to marry him under such circumstances. But Margaret is different, perhaps, from me."

But the more she meditated upon the subject, the more was Janetta surprised at Margaret's conduct. It seemed unlike her; it was uncharacteristic. Margaret might be for a time under the charm of Wyvis Brand's strong individuality; but if she married him, a miserable awakening was almost sure to come to her at last. To exchange the smooth life, the calm and the luxury, of Helmsley Court for the gloom, the occasional tempests, and the general crookedness of existence at the Red House would be no agreeable task for Margaret. Of the two, Janetta felt that life at the Red House would be far the more acceptable to herself: she did not mind a little roughness, and she had a great longing to bring mirth and sunshine into the gloomy precincts of her cousin's house. Janetta agreed with Lady Caroline as to the inadvisability of Margaret's attachment to Wyvis far more than Lady Caroline gave her credit for.

Lady Caroline was almost angrier than she had ever been in her life. She had had some disagreeable experiences during the last few hours. She had had visitors, since Lady Ashley's garden-party, and amongst them had been numbered two or three of her intimate friends who had "warned" her, as they phrased it, against "Margaret's infatuation for that wild Mr. Brand." Lady Caroline listened with her most placid smile, but raged inwardly. That her peerless Margaret should have been indiscreet! She was sure that it was only indiscretion—nothing more—but even that was insufferable! And what had Alicia Stone been doing? Where had her eyes been? Had she been bribed or coaxed into favoring the enemy?

Miss Stone had had a very unpleasant half-hour with her patroness that morning. It had ended in her going away weeping to pack up her boxes; for Lady Caroline literally refused to condone the injury done to Margaret by any carelessness of chaperonage on Miss Stone's part. "You must be quite unfit for your post, Alicia," she said, severely. "I am sorry that I shall not be able to recommend you for Lord Benlomond's daughters. I never thought you particularly wise, but such gross carelessness I certainly never did expect." Now this was unfortunate for Alicia, who had been depending on Lady Caroline's good offices to get her a responsible position as chaperon to three motherless girls in Scotland.

Lady Caroline had as yet not said a single word to Margaret. She had not even changed her caressing manner for one of displeasure. But she had kept the girl with her all the morning, and had come out alone only because Margaret had gone for a drive with two maiden aunts who had just arrived for a week, and with whom Lady Caroline felt that she would be absolutely safe. She was glad that she had the afternoon to herself. It gave her an opportunity of seeing Janetta Colwyn, and of conducting some business of her own as well. For after seeing Janetta she ordered the coachman to drive to the office of her husband's local solicitor, and in this office she remained for more than half an hour. The lawyer, Mr. Greggs by name, accompanied her with many smiles and bows to the carriage.

"I am sure we shall be able to do all that your ladyship wishes," he said, politely. "You shall have information in a day or two." Whereat Lady Caroline looked satisfied.

It was nearly six o'clock when she reached home, and her absence had caused some astonishment in the house. Tea had been carried out as usual to the seats under the cedar-tree on the lawn, and Mr. Adair's two sisters were being waited on by Margaret, fair and innocent-looking as usual, in her pretty summer gown. Lady Caroline's white eyelids veiled a glance of sudden sharpness, as she noticed her daughter's unruffled serenity. Margaret puzzled her. For the first time in her life she wondered whether she had been mistaken in the girl, who had always seemed to reproduce so accurately the impressions that her teachers and guardians wished to make. Had it been, all seeming? and was Margaret mentally and morally an ugly duckling, hatched in a hen's nest?

"Dear mamma, how tired you look," said the girl, softly. "Some fresh tea is coming for you directly. I took Alicia a cup myself, but she would not let me in. She said she had a headache."

"I dare say," replied Lady Caroline, a little absently. "At least—I will go to see her presently: she may be better before dinner. I hope you enjoyed your drive, dear Isabel."

Isabel was the elder of Mr. Adair's two sisters.

"Oh, exceedingly. Margaret did the honors of her County so well: she seems to know the place by heart."

"She has ridden with Reginald a good deal," said the mother.

Margaret had seated herself beside the younger of the aunts—Miss Rosamond Adair—and was talking to her in a low voice.

"How lovely she is!" Miss Adair murmured to her sister-in-law. "She ought to marry well, Caroline."

"I hope so," said Lady Caroline, placidly. "But I always think that Margaret will be difficult to satisfy." It was not her rÔle to confide in her husband's sisters, of all people in the world.

"We heard something about Sir Philip Ashley: was there anything in it?"

Lady Caroline smiled. "I should have thought him everything that was desirable," she said, "but Margaret did not seem to see it in that light. Poor dear Sir Philip was very much upset."

"Ah, well, she may do better!"

"Perhaps so. Of course we should never think of forcing the dear child's inclinations," said Lady Caroline.

And yet she was conscious that she had laid her hand on a weapon with which she meant to beat down Margaret's inclinations to the ground. But it was natural to her to talk prettily.

Wheels were heard at that moment coming up the drive. Lady Caroline, raising her eyes, saw that Margaret started as the sound fell upon her ear.

"A bad sign!" she said to herself. "Girls do not start and change color when nothing is wrong. Margaret used not to be nervous. I wonder how far that man went with her. She may be unconscious of his intentions—he may not have any; and then she will have been made conspicuous for nothing! I wish the Brands had stayed away for another year or two."

The sound of wheels had proceeded from a dog-cart in which Mr. Adair, after an absence of a fortnight, was driving from the station. In a very few minutes he had crossed the lawn, greeted his wife, sisters and daughter, and thrown himself lazily into a luxurious lounging-chair.

"Ah, this is delightful!" he said. "London is terribly smoky and grimy at this time of year. And you all look charming—and so exactly the same as ever! Nothing changes down here, does it, my Pearl?"

He was stroking Margaret's hand, which lay upon his knee, as he spoke. The girl colored and dropped her eyes.

"Changes must come to us all," she said, in a low voice.

"A very trite remark, my dear," said Lady Caroline, smiling, "but we need not anticipate changes before they come. We are just as we were when you went away, Reginald, and nothing at all has happened."

She thought that Margaret looked at her oddly, but she did not care to meet her daughter's eyes just then. Lady Caroline was not an unworldly woman, not a very conscientious one, or apt to set a great value on fine moral distinctions; but she did regret just then that she had not impressed on her daughter more deeply the virtue of perfect truthfulness.

"By-the-by," said Mr. Adair, "I saw some letters on the hall table and brought them out with me. Will you excuse me if I open them? Why—that's the Brands' crest."

Lady Caroline wished that he had left the words unsaid. Margaret's face went crimson and then turned very pale. Her mother saw her embarrassment and hastened to relieve it.

"Margaret, dear, will you take Alicia my smelling salts? I think they may relieve her headache. Tell her not to get up—I will come and see her soon."

And as Margaret departed, Mr. Adair with lifted eyebrows and in significant silence handed an envelope to his wife. She glanced at it with perfectly unmoved composure. It was what she had been expecting: a letter from Wyvis Brand asking for the hand of their daughter, Margaret Adair.