“I have never had any objection to Jack Hurstly, and I have none now, but I certainly am not going to marry him. If he gets killed in India, as you thoughtfully suggested, it will perhaps prove to you that he is beyond your matrimonial schemes. I do not believe anything else would,” said Muriel, now thoroughly aroused. She looked lovely when she was angry: the gray eyes blazed and widened, the firm chin became inexorable, and her nostrils dilated like a spirited horse. Her uncle, who had an eye for beauty, appreciated her appearance, but was too vexed to remark on it. “Gad! you have the temper of a devil!” he grumbled in reluctant admiration; “but if you won’t have Jack Hurstly, you won’t. And on the whole you might do better. What I want you thoroughly to understand is I’ll have no monkey business with that young doctor. I didn’t ask him down here, or you either, for any such purpose. If you had liked Jack Hurstly, well and good. I wouldn’t have opposed the match. He’s got blood, and he’s got money, and I have nothing against him. But I have set my heart on one thing if you won’t have him.” He stopped a moment. “Muriel,” he said, “you know my heart is weak, and it’s very bad for me to be opposed.” Muriel smiled; the scene lost its strain; the gay voices of idlers on the lawn came in through the windows with the after-dinner grace of the “wise thrushes” in the shrubbery. They all sounded so restful and contented. But she—must she battle till her life’s end? Tears of self-pity rose to her eyes. Her uncle supposed them to be signs of softening grace. “My child,” he said, “Sir Alec Bruce is a good man, and he loves you.” “He has a good income and a good family,” suggested the girl maliciously. Sir Arthur waved them aside grandly. “I have set my heart upon the match,” said; “my life is risked by a disappointment.” Muriel crushed her hands together nervously. “And what about my life?” she said at last. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter,” and ignoring her uncle’s wrathful exclamation she stepped out of the French windows and joined the idlers on the lawn. Sir Arthur waited a few moments for a heart attack to come on, but as nothing happened he also went into the garden. But a few moments had dissipated the group, and only Cynthia Grant remained with a bull-dog and a cigarette. She looked extremely unsympathetic, and grumbling under his breath something far from complimentary about advanced young women he returned to the house. A moment later Dr. Grant joined his sister on the lawn. The bull-dog, appropriately named “Grip,” looked wistfully from one to the other. He knew it was impossible to be at the feet of both at the same time, and so with chivalrous courtesy he curled himself up once more by his mistress’s side and listened with heavily absorbed eyes to the following conversation. “Do you really mean to do it?” asked Cynthia curtly.