“I daresay you know--I daresay you may have heard some talk about--about Anastasia Falaise? Of course, you don’t know what she’s like; people talk such confounded rot about her, especially women. You should hear Aunt Etta. They say she’s old; of course, it’s all jealousy. She may be twenty-five--that’s older than me, of course--I’m not quite twenty,” (his nineteenth birthday had taken place a week previously), “but then what’s five years?” His step-mother was not prepared to say off-hand what five years were; they might be such different things; so she looked at the boy sympathetically and shook her head. “People talk such beastly stuff about age,” the youth continued fiercely, “and not knowing your own mind; why, of course, I know she’s perfect. Why, Edith--Cleopatra, and Mary Queen of Scots, and Helen of Troy--they couldn’t have been anything to Anastasia--she’s--she’s--well, the poets are all really idiots; none of them describe her decently!” Edith looked as if she quite believed this; in her heart of hearts she thought that the poets had under-estimated Horace, but that was very probably because they were, generally speaking, men. “Do you know, I can’t believe in my luck, Edith--I can’t really; she might have married princes, and she’s fond of me,” cried the boy. Edith’s eyes filled with sudden tears. The boy was very beautiful, young, exquisitely shaped, with light curls and bright brown eyes, and for the first time she was seeing his face alive and eager with the joy of life! “I can quite believe it, Leslie,” she said gently. “And she’s promised to marry me,” he exclaimed exultantly, “in three years’ time.” His step-mother jumped. This was not what she had been prepared to hear. It came with a sudden shock. Horace had said the woman was old enough to be the boy’s mother, and Horace was certain to be right. “Oh, Leslie!” she murmured, holding out her hands, vaguely troubled and distressed. “Oh, Leslie!” “Oh, it’s all right,” said the boy, rising, “you’ll like her, I know; and, fancy, Aunt Etta--well--I can hardly believe it; she tried to come between us, and actually went and asked Anastasia to give me up. All my life she’s tried to keep me away from dad and you--and now--now Anastasia! I can’t forgive her,” said Leslie, “and I shouldn’t think you would.” He took one of Edith’s hands and kissed it. “Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered, “you don’t know, you don’t understand how she loved you! You see you did make a mistake, didn’t you? Just a little one that didn’t matter really about me; don’t make another which may matter terribly about your Aunt Etta. Ah, Leslie, she’s given up her life for you--she meant it all for the best. You see she--she loves you. Try to forgive her!” “I’d have forgiven her if she’d told me,” said the boy, “but she did it on the sly. Father did it, too--he wrote some stupid letter; but then he told me he was going to--he didn’t deceive me.” The boy choked suddenly.