Not that the latter meant to appear other than he was. His great Plan presumed, indeed, quite the reverse. He was intent that Muriel should admire not his wealth or his reputation, but his inherent worth and the genuine basis for his reputation. He was resolved that she should love not any or all of the things that he might be, but the one thing, the real self, that he had himself made. His fault, according to the prevailing standards, if any fault resulted, consisted only in his insistence upon a too introspectively observed ideal of just what that thing happened to be. Nor yet, and this is likewise intrinsic, would the severest scrutiny have revealed in Muriel any realisation of a pose upon her own part. Her aunt, trusting as do most guardians of youth to a natural intuition in the ward, which has no standing in fact, refrained from informing the girl in plain language what it was that Stainton wanted. Mrs. Newberry's fears were ungrounded: the conventional calm had not been disturbed, and Muriel, save for timid smiles at the butcher's boy when he called at the school and furtive glances at the acolytes in church, had never yet known love. Not guessing the truth, Muriel was merely, for the first time, being accorded a glimpse of those kingdoms of this world of which all schoolgirls have had their stolen dreams. With what she saw she was frankly delighted, and when a pretty young girl is frankly delighted, a pretty young girl is obviously not at her worst. "You look very happy nowadays," said Mrs. Newberry at the luncheon-table, looking, however, not at the subject of her remarks but at the master of her affections, who, chancing to be lunching at home, sat opposite her. "I am, Aunt Ethel," said Muriel. "I always have been happy, but I am happier than ever now." Mrs. Newberry smiled meaningly at Preston, but Muriel could not see the smile, and Preston would not. "Why is that?" asked Ethel. "Oh, because." "Because why?" "Because I am seeing so much. The city, you know, and these suppers and things. Sitting up until to-morrow. And I do so love the theatres!" Ethel's smile faded. "Yes," she said, "Mr. Stainton is very kind." "And generous," put in Preston so unexpectedly that his wife jumped. "Thompson; the salmon." "I think he's lovely," said Muriel. "Do you?" Mrs. Newberry was bovine even in her playful moods. "He does really run about like a boy, doesn't he?" "Well," said Muriel, "I wouldn't say _just_ like a boy." "He seems quite young--he actually seems very young indeed," mused Ethel. "Seems?" said Preston. "He is." His positive tone startled Mrs. Newberry into indiscretion. "He is fif----" she began, then, catching her husband's eye, she corrected herself: "He must be nearly----" "He is forty," said Newberry, scowling. "Oh, Uncle Preston," protested Muriel, "Mr. Holt said----" "George Holt is a fool," said Newberry, "and always was."