“_Cariad!_” growled the Governor, more angrily than I’d ever heard him speak except to me, “what do you _mean_? Here, sir.” He grabbed him by the collar, kicking the bone violently over the shallow sill in front of him. “Sorry, I shall have to get the little brute locked up.” And he dragged the cheerfully resigned Cariad out and along the gravel to the back of the house. “Decent sort of young fellow, Waters; very clever business-man; useful to know; quite a nice chap, too,” commented the little Major, lowering his voice as he turned to me. “But, my dear child”—he always used the word “child” to excuse his gesture while he patted my shoulder, or smoothed my lace collar, or played with my silver chain—“my child, how _did_ you come to be here?” “I am staying with Mrs. Waters”—demurely. “Well, well! So you knew them! Your poor father didn’t, did he? You were at school with the girls of the house, perhaps?” “No. I met Mr. Waters”—still more demurely—“in business.” “Business? Upon my word! Glad you’ve got such a business-adviser. Glad you’re in the position to need one, Monica. I heard rumours of your poor father having left you not very well off. Odd how these untrue bits of gossip get about!”—with an experienced eye upon the expensive new afternoon frock of my preferred pink, with its creamy ruffle, black velvet bow, and small paste buckle. “You look the picture of prosperity and health and good looks, if you’ll allow an old friend to say so?” Well, one simply _has_ to “allow” things to people who call themselves “old.” But for that, how many “old friends” would have received the order of “Paws off!” or “No patting, please,” or a more politely expressed equivalent from the girls who can’t be rude to their father’s contemporaries? I was only just about to draw my hand away from another long and tender squeeze of Major Montresor’s, when his host came back to us. Through the French window, as the Governor pushed it open, a ray of sunlight caught and blazed on the magnificent diamonds of the ring which had been bought at Gemmer’s for me to wear. Instantly Major Montresor pounced on that other hand. “Hal-lo! What’s this? It isn’t——?” “Yes,” said I, sedately. “Little Monica engaged?” “Yes.” “Come, not really, what? No! You don’t say so, really?” “I am afraid I must, Major Montresor.” “By—Jove! And I never heard! Here’s a blow!” He sighed tempestuously. “Well! Youth will be served! Fortunate youth!” he prattled on without a break. “I’m sure he’s to be congratulated, the dog. Always hanging round you in the old days, I remember. Yes! Cultured sort of young Johnny with a beard—what was his name, now? Ah, I have it—Vandeleur, of course, young Sydney Vandeleur!”