Fulvia could not have told what made her ask the question. She had never thought of Ethel in connection with Nigel. Malcolm Elvey was Nigel's particular friend, and it followed as a matter of course that Nigel should see much of all the Elvey family. But Ethel—why, Ethel was merely a bright, useful girl, on frank and easy terms with Nigel. The very intimacy between the two had always been so simple and natural, so little talked about by either, as almost to exclude from the minds of lookers-on a thought of anything beyond. Fulvia was not, and never had been, greatly in love with the Elveys as a family. She liked Mr. Elvey, but not Mrs. Elvey; and she did not care for Ethel. Her first utterance of the name on this occasion was involuntary. Something in Nigel's face arrested her attention, however, and she at once asked, "Did you see Ethel?" "Yes." "Was she glad to have you back?" "I did not ask her." "She might have shown it without being asked." Fulvia's eyes could equally well look soft and kind, or hard and cold. The latter expression came into them now. "I had a pleasant welcome, of course." "From Ethel?" "Yes, from Ethel." "But not all that you expected?" "Yes—" "Then what did Ethel say or do?" Nigel had reached his utmost limit of endurance for one evening. "Somebody else seems taking up with the inquisitorial line now," he said, not so lightly as he wished. "Are you going to bed?" She gave him a searching glance, then held out her hand, keeping her head well back. "Good-night," came abruptly. "So Ethel does stand first, as Anice said,—before mother and sisters!" "If you wish to make mischief—" began Nigel. "I'm not going to make mischief. Don't you know me better? Such things have to be, of course; and I always find them out before anybody else. You are getting to the correct age for the epidemic; but you may trust me not to speak. I'm not anxious to break the madre's heart sooner than need be. I don't mean that she would object to Ethel more than to anybody else—particularly—so you need not look at me like that. It's the fact of anybody that will be the rub; and of course you can't be expected to live a life of celibacy on her account. Ethel is a nice enough girl—at least, I suppose so. I never feel that I know her; but that may be my own fault. However, it is time we should both be in bed, so good-night." She allowed no opportunity for another brotherly salutation, but retreated with a mocking smile. "Go and dream of Ethel; only don't look doleful," she said. Then she mounted deliberately the shallow oak stairs, warbling a ditty by the way till her room was reached, and the door was locked. Warbling ceased when she found herself alone.