Baby looked exceedingly sympathetic, fluffy, and engaging: something like a sweet little night-owl, with her round wide eyes and her pursed-up mouth. He suddenly caught one of her hands and held its soft palm closely between his own lean ones: "Miss Cuningham," he said in an urgent whisper, "I know you can help me." She stared at him. It would almost seem as if this strange being could read her vacillating thought. He saw her hesitate and bent to look into her eyes, while the pressure of his hand grew closer. "And if you can help me, you must. Remember your promise." "Well, then," the girl became suddenly breathless, as if she had been running. She looked round over her shoulder: "I know it’s beastly mean of me, but, there—you have only to make Uncle Arthur take it up...." "Ah!" The teeth shone out in his dark face. "I understand. Thank you." But Baby was already gone. With crimson cheeks and a deep sense of guilt, she was running hastily away from the starry terrace and the great mysterious, jewelled Indian night, into the lighted drawing-room. Here Lady Gerardine was quietly seated alone by a green-shaded lamp, reading her favourite Thoreau. She looked up and smiled at Aspasia’s flurried entrance, marked the quivering, flushed face. "My dear," she exclaimed, with a vague amused laugh, "what has happened? Don’t tell me that you have had to box George Murray’s ears again!" George Murray was Sir Arthur’s first secretary, a young gentleman with a weakness for the fair sex, whose manners and morals had (in spite of M. Châtelard’s theories of Western immunity) been considerably affected by the lax atmosphere of India. Aspasia had found it necessary, more than once, to put him in his place; and on the last occasion had confided to her aunt, with a noisy sigh, that if the Leschetizky method was to fail in the glorious musical results for which she had once fondly hoped, it had at least had the advantage of singularly strengthening the muscles of her arm. She now stretched out her fingers, and, half unconsciously sketched a buffet in the air; then she shook her head: "Oh, no, indeed! He has not looked the same side of the room as me since Saturday." "Poor man, I am not surprised!" "Serve him right!" said Aspasia, indefinite but vindictive. "It is not Mr. Simpson, surely?" "Simpson?" echoed the girl, with supreme contempt, "that little worm!" "Who is it, then? For something, or some one, has upset you." "Oh, I don’t know! It’s Major Bethune, I think. I don’t believe he’s canny. He has got such queer eyes." Then, thinking she saw her aunt shudder, she gave her a remorseful hug and flew to the piano to plunge into melodious fireworks.