But those eyes—bright, merry, and laughing—had a brain behind them that was practical and penetrating, and she saw the meshes quite plainly. She accepted the hospitality with pleasure, did her best to make a friend of my only sister, Mercy, was properly subdued, if not awed, in the presence of my father, and, in fact, did everything expected of her except the one thing—she would not let Lascelles make love to her, and completely out-manoeuvred him whenever he tried to bring matters to a head. Moreover, a crisis of another kind was in the brewing. Mrs. Curwen herself was not an American, but a north-country Englishwoman, who had used her pretty looks and sharp wits to captivate the rich American, and she took Mercy into her confidence one day to an extent that had results. "I am very fond of you, Mercy dear, and would give much to have you as my sister; but your brother, Lascelles, is too formal, too stiff in the backbone, for me. I have made one marriage for a reason that wasn’t love: but I married an old man; and when I marry again it won’t be for either position or money. I should dearly love to have you for my sister, as I say, but I could not marry your brother Lascelles. Ferdinand is just awfully nice—but I suppose he’s a dreadful scapegrace." I think Mercy laughed hugely at this—her merry heart laughs at most things—and certainly, when she told me—as being my best particular chum she was bound to do immediately—we laughed heartily over it together. "She’s a bright, jolly, little soul and beastly rich, but I’m not having any," said I, shaking my head. "I don’t want to cut out poor old Cello"—this was an unrighteous nickname of ours for Lascelles, with a covert reference to his deep, solemn, twangy voice. "But you’d better tell the father." "You might do worse, Nand," declared my sister. "Her wealth would give you just the chance you want; and it would be awfully jolly to have a rich brother, and she’s a good sort; and you could settle down and——" "Don’t be a little humbug, Mercy. She’s all right, I daresay; but I’m not made that way. If I were going to succeed the father I might think about selling myself for a good round sum; but no, thank you, I’m not in the market. You’d better let Cello and the father know that this little net of theirs has got fouled;" and with that I dismissed the matter, and with no thought of trouble went off on a fortnight’s visit to an old Oxford friend.