"His name is Gerald Leigh." "A pretty name, and one which sounds familiar to me. Now, who is Gerald Leigh?" "He is a sculptor." "Ah! now I know. Son of that excellent old tenant of my father's. The genius he discovered on a dungheap. Eugenia, are you quite mad?" "He will be a famous man some day." Herbert shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly irritating way. "Let him be as famous as he likes. What does it matter?" "The proudest family may be proud of allying themselves to a great artist." Herbert looked at his sister with a pitying but amused smile. "My poor girl, don't be led astray by the temporary glorification of things artistic. When these fellows grow talked about we ask them to our houses and make much of them. It's the fashion. But we don't marry them. Indeed, as they all begin in the lower ranks of life, like your friend, they are generally provided with wives of their own station, who stay at home and trouble no one." She winced under the sting of his scorn. He saw it, and knew he was pursuing the right treatment for her disease. "Now, this young Leigh," he continued. "What will he be for years and years? A sort of superior stone-cutter. He will make what living he can by going about and doing busts of mayors and mayoresses, and other people of that class, who want their common features perpetuated. Perhaps he might get a job on a tombstone for a change. Bah! Of course you have been jesting with me, Eugenia. I shall tell Norgate to call as soon as possible." "I shall marry Gerald Leigh," said Eugenia, sullenly. All the same the busts and tombstones weighed heavily upon her. "That," said her brother, rising, and still speaking with a smile, "I am not the least afraid of, although you are of age and mistress of two thousand pounds. You are not cut out to ornament an attic. I need not say I must countermand that settlement. It must wait until you marry Norgate or some other suitable man." He kissed her and walked carelessly away. To all appearance the matter did not cause him a moment's anxiety. He was a clever man, and flattered himself he knew how to treat Eugenia; human nature should be assailed at its weakest points. His carelessness was, of course, assumed; for, meeting Mrs. Cathcart as she drove home, Eugenia's news was sufficiently disturbing to make him stop the carriage, seat himself beside his aunt, and beg her to take another turn in the park, during which he told her what had transpired. They were fitting coadjutors. Mrs. Cathcart was delighted to hear of Sir Ralph's overtures, and was shocked to find that Eugenia was entangled in some low attachment. She quite agreed that the girl must be led, not driven; must be laughed, not talked, out of her folly. "Girls nearly always make fools of themselves once in their lives," said Mr. Cathcart, cynically.