“I don’t know what their intentions are,” said Mr. Carteret; “but as far as I am concerned, you have three weeks less one day in which to propose to her. I want to do the fair thing,” he continued, “and I advise you that the psychological moment would be while the collar-bone is a novelty. There is an American buggy in the stable, and an American trotting horse that drives with one hand. _Verb sap._” “But it isn’t done in England,” said Barclay. “Buggy-riding,” said Mr. Carteret, “or its equivalent, is done wherever there is a man of spirit and a young lady with intuitions. The trouble with you,” he went on, “is that you are too modest on the one hand and too self-important on the other. If you are not good enough for the girl, you needn’t fear that Lady Withers will give you the preference over Sikes. This is the last advice I’m going to give. Henceforth I act on my own account.” Barclay smiled doubtfully, but said nothing. “I mean it,” said Mr. Carteret. That afternoon at tea a telegram arrived from which Barclay gathered that his mother was in Paris, afflicted with a maid with chicken-pox, and that she was frantic with the sanitary regulations of the French government. “Couldn’t I go?” said Mr. Carteret. “No,” said Barclay, “there are twenty-eight words in this dispatch. It is a hurry-call for me.” He took the night train. Three weeks later he came back. He arrived late in the afternoon and found his host before the fire looking thoughtfully at a note which he held in his hand. “I’m glad to see you back,” said Mr. Carteret. “Have you proposed to Mary Granvil?” “I?” said Barclay. “No. How could I in Paris? Why?” There was an anxiety in his manner which suggested that he was not as resigned as he said he was. “If you haven’t been bungling,” said Mr. Carteret, “blessed if I know what has happened.” “Is it announced?” asked Barclay. “Is it Sikes?” “Read Lady Withers’s note,” said Mr. Carteret. Barclay took the note and read: DEAR MR. CARTERET: You will doubtless not be surprised at my request that you remove your horses at once from my stables. It is a disappointment to me that an unforeseen change in my plans makes it impossible for me to have you and Mr. Barclay at Crumpeton this week. Sincerely yours, CONSTANTIA GRANVIL WITHERS. “It’s Sikes,” said Barclay. “It may be,” said Mr. Carteret. “I ought to have taken the matter into my own hands a week ago.” “You don’t mean you are in earnest?” said Barclay. “You will very soon find out,” said Mr. Carteret. “I have no false delicacy about proposing to a lady merely because I’m not sure she’s in love with me.”