All the strain had left her face, and she was more beautiful than he had remembered, but he now looked at her with the practical as well as the romantic eye, for his middle-aged happiness was to depend largely on this capricious creature, and for an instant he wondered if he had not endangered it. "Probably," he said aloud. "Aren't you sure of it?" "Er--I was thinking of something else." "That," she said emphatically, "is what I don't allow." He looked at her rather sternly, bending his head so that the eye behind the monocle was full on her. She would never be as charming as her mother, he reflected, and with a start, he straightened himself on the thought, for he seemed to hear that remark being uttered by dull old gentlemen at their clubs. It was a thing not to be said: it dated one unmistakably, though in this case it was true. "We must have a talk." "A serious one?" "Yes." She looked at him nervously, regardless of her effect. "Will you mind taking care of me?" she asked in a low voice. "My dear child--no." "What is it, then?" "I am trying to frame a piece of good advice. Well--er--this is the kind of thing." He was swinging the eyeglass by its string. "Don't go out into the world thinking you can conquer it: go out meaning to learn." "Oh," Miriam said drearily. This meant that he was not entirely pleased with her. She wondered which of them had changed during these months, and characteristically she decided that it was he. "Are you certain you want me?" she asked sadly. "Quite certain, but you're not going to object to criticism, are you?" he asked. She shook her head. "Well then--" he began and they both smiled, simultaneously reassured about each other. "And will you take me with you when you go back? Perhaps on Monday?" "If the mistress of the house approves." This was addressed to Helen, who had entered. "On Monday, Helen, may I go?" "Yes. But then we ought to have told the trap to come for you." "There's always George," Miriam said with innocence. "Yes, he's always there. That's quite true," Helen said, and she spoke hollowly, as though she were indeed the shell she felt herself to be. "But," Miriam went on, "it would be unkind to ask him." To Uncle Alfred's concern, Helen leaned towards her sister, and spoke rapidly, in a hard, angry voice. "Stop saying things like that! They're not funny. They make you ridiculous. And they're cruel. You've no respect--no respect for people. And George is better than you. He's sorry. That's something--a great deal. I'm not going to have him laughed at."