"First, he’s been trying to persuade Aspasia to go away with him. And secondly, he’s been reproaching her for her unfilial behaviour in refusing to leave us; and thirdly, he has been bestowing his avuncular curse upon her and repudiating her for ever and ever. All this naturally took some time." A flash of pleasure swept across the other’s gloom. "So the girl sticks to us. That is right," he said. Then the frown came back. "You’ve warned them to be quiet, I hope, with their infernal car?" "I’ve told the chauffeur if he makes a sound more than he can help, he’ll have me to deal with. I made the fellow swear to wait for them halfway down the avenue. Lady Aspasia’s a good sort too, take her all in all—has her head screwed on the right way. She’ll keep the old man in order." English took a couple of turns again, and halted, his head bent. There were voices passing in the hall without: Sir Arthur’s querulous tones, Lady Aspasia’s unmistakable accents, strident even under her breath. Bethune went to the window. "There they go," said he, presently. "She’s giving him her arm. By George," he went on, "she, for one, won’t be anxious to dispute your identity, Harry!" The other had sat down by the fire and was gazing into the flames after his old attitude. Bethune, at the window, remained gazing upon the departure of the undesired guests. In a second or two he broke forth again: "The motor’s jibbing! Good Lord, they’ll have it into the gate—now into the apple-tree!" He gave a single note of mirth. "Lady Aspasia is holding down Sir Arthur by main force. Of course he wants to teach the chauffeur how to do it. But she knows better. By George," ejaculated Bethune, in a prophetic burst, "she’s the very woman for him! Ah, here comes Miss Aspasia, hatless, to offer her opinion. I’d give something to hear her; she does not want them back upon us—I warrant." There was a pause. "They’re off! Thank God, they’re off!" Still the man lingered by the window. Aspasia was waving her handkerchief ironically after the departing company, as the car proceeded down the avenue, fitfully, at a speed which (as she subsequently remarked) "would have made any self-respecting cart-horse smile." When she turned to re-enter the house, Bethune had the vision of her rosy face, all brightening with smiles. The interchange of mute greetings, the swift impression of her fair light youth as she flashed by, left him lost in a muse. Harry English stirred in his chair and, on the moment, his friend was at his side. "They’re gone," repeated he, rubbing his hands. The other made no direct reply; but, stooping forward, picked up one of the fragments of paper that had escaped Bethune’s hand in the morning’s work of destruction. He looked at it for a few seconds, abstractedly, and then laughed. "So you were writing a life of me, old man?" said he.