She was really a nice little woman, he thought, docile, and far from stupid; she only wanted a little managing. He had a suspicion that Walter was too easy-going, and if so, this little experience would be excellent for her; it would teach her that after all men were the governing race. It was so foolish when women did not recognize it. “Very well then, you will go on Saturday? Good-bye. Oh, I should like to ask Miss Dunlop to come and see my mother; do you think she would mind cheering her up sometimes?” “Oh no. She is a nice girl too.” “We might make a party to the theatre one night perhaps. By the way, Mrs. Hibbert,” he exclaimed, a sudden thought striking him, “I shall write to Walter as soon as I get to the office and tell him of this arrangement. I might as well enclose a note from you. The mail goes out to-day from Southampton, so that it would be too late to post, but I am sending specially by rail. I will wait while you write a note, and enclose it in mine.” “I wrote by this mail last night,” she answered. “But I should like to tell him about the house—he might be angry.” She laughed at the last words. She only said them to keep up Walter’s dignity. “Oh no, he won’t be angry,” Mr. Fisher laughed back, and Florence thought he was quite good-looking when he was not too grave. He did not look more than forty either; perhaps Ethel might be happy with him. Then, when she had written a few lines, he departed, satisfied with the result of his visit. An odd thing happened about that note. He went straight to the office and found a dozen matters of business awaiting his attention, and all remembrance of the Hibberts fled from him. Suddenly, an hour later, he dived into his pocket for a memorandum, and pulled out an unopened white envelope. He did not look at the address. “What’s this?” he said in utter forgetfulness, and tore it open; and—for his own name caught his eye—he read a passage in Mrs. Hibbert’s note to her husband:— “——_he is a kind old fogey, and I think he likes Ethel D. Would it not be funny if he married her?_” He folded it up quickly for fear he should read more. “Why should it be funny?” he said to himself. The word haunted him all day. * * * * *