“Considered her! Oh, I say now! Why should I consider her pray?” “Why shouldn't you? You are much older than she is and a man of the world besides. And you are engaged to be married, or so I am told.” His smile disappeared. “Now who the devil told you that?” he demanded. “I was told, by one who should know, that you were engaged, or what amounts to the same thing. It is true, isn't it?” “Of course it's true! But--but--why, good God, man! you weren't under the impression that I was planning to marry your niece, were you? Oh, I say! that would be TOO good!” He laughed heartily. He did not appear in the least annoyed or angry, but seemed to consider the whole affair a huge joke. I failed to see the joke, myself. “Oh, no,” he went on, before I could reply, “not that, I assure you. One can't afford luxuries of that kind, unless one is a luckier beggar than I am. Auntie is attending to all that sort of thing. She has me booked, you know, and I can't afford to play the high-spirited independent with her. I should say not! Rather!” He laughed again. “So you think I've been a bit too prevalent in your niece's neighborhood, do you?” he observed. “Sorry. I'd best keep off the lawn a bit, you mean to say, I suppose. Very well! I'll mind the notice boards, of course. Very glad you spoke. Possibly I have been a bit careless. No offence meant, Knowles, and none taken, I trust.” “No,” I said, with some reluctance. “I'm glad you understand my--our position, and take my--my hint so well. I disliked to give it, but I thought it best that we have a clear understanding.” “Of course! Stern uncle and pretty niece, and all that sort of thing. You Americans are queer beggars. You don't strike me as the usual type of stern uncle at all, Knowles. Oh, by the way, does the niece know that uncle is putting up the notice boards?” “Of course she doesn't,” I replied, hastily. His smile broadened. “I wonder what she'll say when she finds it out,” he observed. “She has never struck me as being greatly in awe of her relatives. I should call HER independent, if I was asked. Well, farewell. You and I may have some golf together still, I presume? Good! By-by.” He sauntered on, his serene coolness and calm condescension apparently unruffled. I continued on my way also. But my serenity had vanished. I had the feeling that I had come off second-best in the encounter. I had made a fool of myself, I feared. And more than all, I wondered, as he did, what Frances Morley would say when she learned of my interference in her personal affairs. I foresaw trouble--more trouble. CHAPTER XII In Which the Truth Is Told at Last I said nothing to Hephzibah or Frances of my talk with Lady Carey or with Heathcroft. I was not proud of my share in the putting up of “the notice boards.” I did not mention meeting either the titled aunt or the favored nephew. I kept quiet concerning them both and nervously awaited developments.