In due time he would require a wife to look after him, to sew on his buttons, to pour out his tea, to attend generally to his needs. Tom had come to England with the vague idea of finding a wife before he went back. He began to wonder whether Ethel might not do. Those dainty little fingers of hers would be invaluable for arranging dried flowers upon the pages of his herbariums. Tom's own fingers being thick, and by no means dainty in action, there was the more need that he should choose a wife to supply his own deficiencies. Thus a new thought grow into existence, as the afternoon waned—a short afternoon to Tom, though a long one to Ethel. But Tom's mental processes were always slow; and he gave no sign of what was brewing. Mrs. Elvey made her appearance downstairs for a space, and Tom regaled her with sumptuous descriptions of the eucalyptus. Mrs. Elvey sighed, and said "How nice!" to everything. By-and-by she vanished, and again Ethel found it difficult to hide her recurring yawns. Mr. Elvey had a succession of engagements all day, therefore he could not give help; and the boys always fled from Tom, in dread of Tom's perpetual outpour of "information." So Ethel had nothing in the way of assistance from others, and talk began to flag irresistibly. They had gone through the herbarium from end to end. They had done any amount of Australian kangaroos and plants. Ethel had shown Tom everything in the house worth seeing. She had taken him round the garden for a stroll, and had proposed "a good ramble," which Tom to her disappointment had declined. His bodily action was like his mental action, somewhat slow; and though he could walk any amount with an object—in search of a "specimen," for instance—he scorned exercise for the sake of exercise. Ethel loved it, and she thought it would be so much easier to get on out-of-doors than indoors; if only Tom would have consented. Would the afternoon never end? Was Malcolm ever coming back? A step at last! Ethel sprang up, with a word of excuse, and flew to the front door. No, not Malcolm, but her father! Mr. Elvey looked, down with a stirred expression, and said, "Well—" a long breath following. "Have you heard?" "No, what? O father—not an accident!" "Nothing serious, though it might have been. Why, Ethel—child—I did not mean to frighten you. They are all right—safe at home—and Malcolm will be here presently. Fulvia's dress caught fire, and she would have been badly burnt but for Nigel. He was splendidly prompt—caught Fulvia in his arms, and went straight over into the river. Mr. Carden-Cox says it was the finest thing he ever saw. Capital fellow, isn't he?" The light of pride shone through Ethel's eyes, even while they were brimming with tears. "Not hurt?" she managed to say.