"Then there's an end of it." The Colonel rose, and they made for the drawing room. Philip detained his companion for a moment. "Well?" said the Doctor, feeling the touch on his arm. "For God's sake, old fellow, go slow," said Philip, pressing his arm, and looking at him with an appealing smile. CHAPTER VII. ="To a Pretty Saint."= When Mrs. Delane came back from London, she was met with a question of the precise kind on which she felt herself to be no mean authority. It was a problem of propriety, of etiquette, and of the usages of society, and Mrs. Delane attacked it with a due sense of its importance and with the pleasure of an expert. It arose out of Dale Bannister's call at the Grange. Dale had been accustomed, when a lady found favor in his eyes, to inform her of the gratifying news through the medium of a set of verses, more or less enthusiastic and rhapsodic in their nature. The impulse to follow his usual practice was strong on him after meeting Janet Delane, and issued in the composition of that poem called "To a Pretty Saint," the title of which Nellie had seen. He copied it out fair, and was about to put it in the post when a thought suddenly struck him. Miss Delane was not quite like most of his acquaintances. It was perhaps possible that she might think his action premature, or even impertinent, and that she might deem it incumbent on her to resent being called either a saint or pretty by a friend of one interview's standing. Dale was divided between his newborn doubt of his own instinct of what was permissible and his great reluctance to doom his work to suppression. He decided to consult Philip Hume, who was, as he knew, more habituated to the social atmosphere of places like Denshire. "Eh? what?" said Philip, who was busily engaged in writing a newspaper article. "Written a poem to a girl? All right. I'll listen presently." "I don't want you to listen. I want your advice as to whether to send it or not." "If you've wasted your time writing the thing,--by the way, take care the Doctor doesn't hear of it,--you may as well send it." "The question is, whether she'll be offended." "I'm glad it isn't more important, because I'm busy." "Look here! Stop that anonymous stabber of yours and listen. It's to Miss Delane." Philip stopped in the middle of a particularly vicious paragraph of the "stabber," and looked up with amusement on his face. "It's a perfectly--you know--suitable poem," pursued Dale. "The only question is, will she think it a liberty?" "Oh, send it. They like getting 'em;" and Philip took up his pen again. "You don't know the sort of girl she is." "Then what the deuce is the good of asking me? Ask Nellie." "No, I shan't," said Dale shortly.