His lordship fidgeted nervously. “But couldn’t you?” he began—“couldn’t you—don’t you think—?” “I’m afraid not,” Gwen said kindly, helping him out. “Isn’t there anything I could do?” pleadingly. “Perhaps if you would tell me what you want in a man—?” Gwen felt inclined to say it was a _man_, just that, pure and simple: that she wanted, but she was naturally a kind hearted girl and had no desire to hurt his feelings. “It’s no use,” she said frankly. “Let’s part friends, and you’ll soon find someone you can care for heaps more than me, who won’t worry the life out of you a bit like I should have done.” His lordship shook his head sorrowfully, and looked very woebegone. “No,” he said, “I shall never love another, and I shall never be happy again. I might as well go and shoot myself at once.” Gwen felt desperately inclined to laugh, but managed to keep her face sufficiently to say: “Oh no, I wouldn’t do that. When you’ve got a fine estate, and a title, and all that sort of thing, it’s a pity to clear out and let someone else snatch it up.” His lordship seemed rather struck with the idea, for he said no more about shooting as he dragged himself to the door. He did, however, contrive to look the picture of wretchedness, though somehow not in a manner that appealed to Gwen’s heart, and when the door finally closed behind him she hid her face in her hands a moment as if she would hide her smile even from herself. She had to pause to straighten her face again before she reappeared in the drawing-room, though Lawrence read everything directly in her eyes. “Well,” said her mother, “have you sent him away?” “I didn’t send him, mummie—he went,” she answered coaxingly. “He wouldn’t have gone if you had answered him sensibly.” “Answered him about what?” “Why, his proposal, of course.” “But he didn’t propose.” “Didn’t propose!” dropping her work on her knee, and lifting her eyes in astonishment. “No, mummie. I advised him not to.” Lawrence’s rare smile spread over his face. “My dear, what do you mean?” said Mrs Carew with a helpless look. “Well, mother, what was the good of Lord Selloyd making a fool of himself any more than he could help by asking me to marry him, when I was certain to decline with thanks? I didn’t put it to him quite like that, but it came to the same thing in the end, and he had the sense to see it and go away.” “You are hopeless, quite hopeless; and I believe you make her worse, Lawrence.” “No, indeed,” answered Lawrence from the depths of his easy-chair. “I have been at great pains to point out to her the ineffable benefits of a coronet, to say nothing of a husband who is—well—like cotton-wool in the hands of a strong-minded woman.”