“Not that,” said Mr. Nugent, whose intellect had suddenly become painfully acute—“not _her_?” “Why not?” inquired the other. Mr. Nugent leaned back in his chair and regarded him with an air of kindly interest. “Well, there’s no need for you to worry about my father for that,” he said; “he would raise no objection.” “_Eh?_” said Hardy, starting up from his chair. “He would welcome it,” said Mr. Nugent, positively. “There is nothing that he would like better; and I don’t mind telling you a secret—she likes you.” Hardy reddened. “How do you know?” he stammered. “I know it for a fact,” said the other, impressively. “I have heard her say so. But you’ve been very plain-spoken about me, Jem, so that I shall say what I think.” “Do,” said his bewildered friend. “I think you’d be throwing yourself away,” said Nugent; “to my mind it’s a most unsuitable match in every way. She’s got no money, no looks, no style. Nothing but a good kind heart rather the worse for wear. I suppose you know she’s been married once?” “What!” shouted the other. “Married?” Mr. Nugent nodded. His face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay. “I thought everybody knew it,” he said. “We have never disguised the fact. Her husband died twenty years ago last——” “Twenty” said his suddenly enlightened listener. “Who?—What?” Mr. Nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame. “Dear—aunt,” he choked, “how pleas—pleased she’d be if—she knew. Don’t look like that, Hardy. You’ll kill me.” “You seem amused,” said Hardy, between his teeth. “And you’ll be Kate’s uncle,” said Mr. Nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Poor little Kate.” He put his head on the table again. “And mine,” he wailed. “Uncle Jemmy!—will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?” Mr. Hardy’s expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim. “Well, I’ll do what I can for you,” he observed, “but I suppose you know Kate’s off for a three months’ visit to London to-morrow?” The other observed that he didn’t know it, and, taught by his recent experience, eyed him suspiciously. “It’s quite true,” said Nugent; “she’s going to stay with some relatives of ours. She used to be very fond of one of the boys—her cousin Herbert—so you mustn’t be surprised if she comes back engaged. But I daresay you’ll have forgotten all about her in three months. And, anyway, I don’t suppose she’d look at you if you were the last man in the world. If you’ll walk part of the way home with me I’ll regale you with anecdotes of her chilhood which will probably cause you to change your views altogether.” [Illustration: “A spirit of quiet despair.”]