"At least there is a soul that can afford to be transparent," he said to himself. Then aloud, following his first perplexed train of thought: "Perhaps it is because of your uncle, of Sir Arthur?" he suggested. "Lady Gerardine may be afraid of annoying him. Some men are jealous of their wives’ first husbands." He smiled, half derisively to himself, half genially upon her. "The Runkle!" cried Aspasia, with a giggle. "Jealous? Oh no; I don’t think so! Why, he is the only creature who ever does speak of Captain English in this place. Poor Runkle, he’s so awfully pleased with himself, you know, that I don’t think he could be jealous of anything or anybody." "Why then——" Bethune’s brow darkened at this confident removal of the only hypothesis that could put Lady Gerardine’s behaviour in a favourable light. "Do you think," he said, regarding the girl reflectively, "that you could use your influence in this matter?" Again Aspasia’s head flew from side to side in violent negation. "Oh, I could not! Aunt Rosamond, she’s a darling, she is more than good to me; I love her, but—it would seem such horrible impertinence. I cannot explain, Major Bethune, but I never feel as if I knew her really, nor as if she wanted me to know her. She always seems to me to be all outside, somehow." He reflected a moment; then he suddenly held out his hand to her, with that softening of the countenance she had already noted—and noted to approve. "Will you? I want you to try and help me," said he. It was worded as a request; it was voiced, somehow, as a command. She was preparing to twirl her curly mop, when she looked up and met his eyes. Then—she never knew how it happened—she said quite the opposite to what she had intended: "I will try." And this was a promise. There was no mistake about it. He held her hand for a second in a firm grasp; neither of them wotted, or cared, for the white-clad, dusky-faced retinue that stood like so many statues awaiting the moment to proffer their services. If a liquid eye rolled curiously, however, it was an exception; your Hindoo has a dignified discretion of his own. * * * * * "Play me something, Baby." Lady Gerardine was still lying back in her chair, almost as if she had not moved. Her face had perhaps a whiter pallor than before, but there was no other trace of emotion to be seen. Instead of obeying, Aspasia, with her promise heavy on her heart and all the indiscreet impulsiveness of her years, rushed over and flung herself at her aunt’s feet, rubbing a coaxing head against her knees. Rosamond laid her hand upon the curls. This Baby seized and kissed; then she looked up. Lady Gerardine smiled; it was a smile indulgent but of infinite detachment. "It is perfectly absurd that I should call you Aunt," began the girl. True child as she was, she could think of no better scheme of attack than this wheedling. "You look as young as I do."