“No! Captain Hurstly. She was wrong—utterly wrong!” the girl cried. “What are we sheltered, protected darlings, brought up with closed eyes and within walls, to know of the world and man’s temptations? How dare we judge who have no standards of comparison? And if we love”—her voice grew so tender it was like music—“and if we love it is for man’s redemption, not for the satisfaction of our own, thin, misty ideals! And it should be the crown of our life to raise the man we love from lower things, and trust in his love to leave them for ever far behind!” She moved nervously back to the seat, and turned that she might still half face him. “I don’t know what I’ve been saying,” she said breathlessly. “I am afraid it must sound very silly and foolish to you, and rather—rather uncalled for; but it has always seemed to me that women like Muriel, who think God’s tools not good enough for them, do a terrible amount of harm.” Jack took a step forward and looked down at her. “If there were more women like you,” he said huskily, “there would be fewer men—like me, Miss Gladys.” Gladys smiled a little. It was difficult for her to be serious for long. “Then,” she said, “it’s certainly a good thing that I’m unique.” . . . “My dear child! you know perfectly well that this is the most unhealthy time to be out in. Go in at once and dress for dinner! Really, Jack, I should have thought you would have known better!”—Mary Huntly shook her head at him reproachfully. Gladys lifting her eyes up to Jack, with a mixture of amusement and regret, turned gracefully and passed into the house. Mary Huntly, for all her sage advice, stayed out in the fast deepening darkness. They walked for a little in silence towards the gate. Mary turned over in her mind what she should say to him. It was hard—extremely hard—and, worse, it looked disagreeable. She was used to doing difficult things, but as a rule they had delightful effects. She very much doubted as a woman of the world whether what she had to say would have any effect, but as a woman a little beyond the world she knew she ought to say it. “My dear boy!” she said as they reached the gate, “that girl doesn’t ring true.” “What do you mean, Mrs. Huntly?” Jack asked sternly. “Are you talking of—Miss Gladys?” He made that fatal half instant’s pause before her name that marks a lover. “You have made one mistake already in falling in love with a woman too good for you,” she answered quietly, “don’t make the worse one of falling in love with a woman—not good enough! Good-night! I think you had better not come in after dinner this evening.” Jack would have stayed and insisted on further explanations, for he was perplexed and angry—there’s nothing that makes a straightforward man so angry as perplexity—but Jim Musgrave who was going to dine with them came up, and in a mixture of greetings and farewells he had to go, but as he went he said very distinctly:—