"When you are my age," said Mr. Stirling, "it is just the woman, not some fanciful angel with a Grecian profile and abnormally long legs, but that particular little brown-haired creature with her short face whom you brush aside, who makes the tragedy of the picture. When I think of what that small courageous personage endures day by day, what her daily life must be--but what's the use of talking? Twenty can't hear a word fifty is saying--isn't meant to. Wake up, Geoff. There is another lady in the case. It is past the caretaker's tea-time. You _must_ learn to consider the fair sex, my dear boy. We are keeping her from her tea. Look, Miss Manvers has seen us. We'll join her in the gardens." One of Mr. Stirling's pleasantest qualities was that he never remembered he was a man of letters. Consequently it was not necessary for him to show that he was still a boy at heart and that he could elaborately forget that he was a distinguished novelist by joining in sailing Harry's boat. Harry scrambled to his feet and shook hands with both men at Janey's bidding, and then he looked wistfully at Geoff as a possible playfellow and smiled at him, an ingratiating smile. But Geoff at twenty, two years younger than Harry, Geoff the artist, the cultured inquirer after famous Raeburns, the appraiser of broken reflections and relative values, only gaped vacantly at him, hands in pockets, without seeing him. Harry puffed out an enormous sigh and looked back at his boat, and then he clapped his hands suddenly and ran to meet Annette, who was coming slowly towards them across the grass. Mr. Stirling's eyes and Janey's followed him, and Mr. Stirling felt rather than saw that Janey winced as she looked gravely at the approaching figure. Geoff's hat was at the back of his sugar-cone of a head. His mild face was transfixed. "Mrs. Le Geyt," he said, below his breath. CHAPTER XXIV "Our life is like a narrow raft, Afloat upon the hungry sea. Thereon is but a little space, And all men, eager for a place, Do thrust each other in the sea-- And each man, raving for a place, Doth cast his brother in the sea." Half an hour later, when Annette had left them, Mr. Stirling and his nephew turned with Janey towards the tall Italian gates, which Harry was dutifully holding open for them. As Geoff shambled beside him, glancing backwards in the direction of the path across the park which Annette had taken, Mr. Stirling half wished that his favourite sister's only child stared less at pretty women, that he had less tie and hair, and rather more backbone and deportment. "Uncle Reggie," blurted out Geoff, "that Miss Georges!" "Well?" "Has she divorced him? Is that why she's called Miss Georges?" "I suppose she's called Miss Georges for the same reason that you are called Geoffrey Lestrange," said his uncle. "Because it happens to be her name."