“No, I mean Superbus. He took to him at once--it was the sort of thing he would do. He kept white mice when he was a boy and adored them! Dempsi thinks that he and Mr. Superbus must have both descended from Julius Cæsar. He spent all the morning in the book room searching for Cæsar’s Life.” “How does Double Dan accept your treatment of him--and your discovery that he was a fake?” “That is the surprising thing,” said Diana in wonder. “He was meekness itself--I never saw a man so quickly accept a situation as he did.” “And the perfectly good aunt?” Diana shrugged. “She was difficult. That is natural, being a woman. But she is tame now. I called her Aunt Lizzie to save a scandal. But”--her voice sank--“they’re not married!” Bobbie tried hard to look surprised. “Aren’t they?” Diana shook her head. There was some good Puritan blood in the Fords. Bobbie never received evidence of its presence without a little shock of surprise. “No! Isn’t it terrible? They’re not married. They are not even engaged: I could tell that by the way she orders him about. She does so with the air of a woman who has nothing to lose. But I’m determined on one thing. I thought it out before I went to bed. He shall marry her before he leaves this house! She has been hopelessly compromised. This adventure shall have one good result.” Bobbie was not enthusiastic. “I shouldn’t meddle if I were you,” he said, but made no impression on her. Gordon Selsbury came into the room unnoticed. He carried a dustpan and a short-handled broom. He stood for a while irresolutely, neither of the pair noticing him. Then: “Have you heard from Gordon?” Her face lit up. “I’ve had the loveliest wires from him. Really he has been most thoughtful! The dear man has telegraphed from almost every station.” Bobbie coughed. “Somehow I thought he would,” he said. She was searching her handbag and brought out a folded paper. “Here is the last, from Crewe; it didn’t arrive until ten o’clock this morning. ‘Having a comfortable journey. Hope everything is going smoothly--Gordon.’” Bobbie sat up. “Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” he protested warmly--too warmly, he realised. “I mean, it’s too bad that didn’t arrive until to-day. Write to the Post Office.” Gordon growled under his breath, and took another step into the room. Diana saw him, but made no sign. He was one with the furniture. “If he’d only stay away for another week!” she sighed. It was the opportunity for which Bobbie had hoped. “You know, old Gordon isn’t such a bad chap,” he said. “I know one’s first impression is that he is a terrible prig, and his manner is bad, I admit; and he’s a thought conceited. These intellectuals are. Though why, I’ve never understood.” She shook her head. Evidently she had already found excuses for Gordon, and there was no need for his championship. “Conceited? But most men are, don’t you think? I wouldn’t call it conceit--he’s a little self-important, that’s all.”