“Sh--sh!” said his mother, pinching his arm in her terror lest he should be overheard. “For goodness’ sake hold your tongue. I’ve no doubt these people have their spies about, and if we’re not very civil to them, they’ll persuade cousin John to be rude to us, or something dreadful.” “You needn’t fear that I shall be anything but civil to that girl,” said Donald, as if conscious that his civility was rather a precious thing. And Mrs. Graham-Shute left her son with a sigh of self-pity at obtaining so little sympathy from her “own people.” She was an inventive woman, however, where her own little schemes were concerned, and an idea had come into her head. If it should prove, as she feared, that there was any danger of “dear John’s” being enslaved by the housekeeper’s pretty daughter, why should she not put “a drag” across the scent in the shape of her son? He was handsome and fascinating beyond all men, and was twenty-five years younger than John Bradfield. He was already attracted by the girl, who could not fail to be flattered by his admiration, whatever her designs might be upon the master of the house. If Donald would have the sense to make love to her without exciting the jealous suspicions of his cousin, he might draw off the girl’s attention, and give his mother time to “look round” in the interests of herself and her family. In the meantime, she made up her mind to “be civil.” This proved a more difficult task than she had expected. At dinner she found Mrs. Abercarne installed in the place of the mistress of the house. She saw “dear John,” who had welcomed her without effusiveness, casting sheep’s eyes in the direction of Miss Abercarne. As she expressed it afterwards to her husband, who was delighted with Chris: “You couldn’t move for Abercarnes. It was ‘Mrs Abercarne, will you do this?’ and ‘Miss Abercarne can tell you that,’ from morning till night!” On the whole, dinner was a calamitous function. Mr. Graham-Shute, who was neither a busybody nor a schemer, but simply an easy-going gentleman, without any great measure of tact, made, in spite of frowns of warning from his wife, more than one awkward remark. In the first place, he asked John Bradfield, across the table, whether he still kept his private lunatic on the establishment. “Because if you do, you know, my dear fellow,” he went on, “I sha’n’t be able to sleep a wink.” Mr. Bradfield answered, very shortly: “I don’t see what that can have to do with your sleeping!” “Don’t you? Why, John, your memory’s going. Have you forgotten the row he kicked up last time we were here, and how we all thought he would bring his door down? And the man who looks after him, or, at least, who did then, man named Stelfox, said he always went on like that when there were visitors in the house. I declare I shouldn’t have dared to come to-day if I thought you’d got him still!” “Why didn’t you ask me, then?” said John Bradfield, drily. “I didn’t want to have you here against your will.”