Cristiane had refused him, certainly, but she was none the less stung at the mere thought that he was daring to console himself; she felt exactly like the proverbial dog in the manger, even if she did not want the oats no one else should have them. For the first time, Miles Cylmer seemed a desirable possession to the spoiled child. “What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Don’t look so cross.” Ismay threw back her head, with a lovely laugh, that rang with innocence. “I’m not cross,” she cried, “it’s you that are a baby! I told you long ago that you really liked him.” Her sweet voice gave no sign of the fright in her mind lest this girl, who had everything, might try to get back the one that was Ismay’s all, and so strike aside the arm that stood between her and death. “I didn’t like him, or I could have married him,” Cristiane retorted, with intention; Ismay should see that Miles was hers, and not to be interfered with. “Why on earth didn’t you, then? He’s so good-looking,” said the other imperturbably. “I get too tired of him. He was a friend of father’s, and always bothering over here.” As usual, her crimson lips quivered at her father’s name. “Oh, Cristiane--darling, forgive me!” Ismay kissed her, half with real compunction, half to mislead her. “Don’t let’s talk of him any more.” “I don’t want to; I hate him. He never came near me when I was in trouble, just because I wouldn’t marry him. Did you ever hear of anything so selfish?” smarting tears in her eyes. Ismay reflected swiftly that she must burn that penciled card. “I suppose,” Cristiane was going on, “he will be back again soon--saying he loves me, and all that, but he can die of love, for all me.” In spite of her anxious heart it was all Ismay could do to restrain the cold, clear laugh that was in her throat. “I wish that nice Mr. Wray was coming back sooner,” Cristiane observed, when her equanimity was further restored. “A fortnight is a very long time when you’re dull. I like him far better than Miles Cylmer. He’s so much cleverer--and kinder,” dropping her voice. “Kinder? Look here, Cristiane, listen to me,” said Ismay, very earnestly. “He isn’t kind at all, and I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you, with my little finger.” “Why? I believe you’re cross, Ismay, because Mr. Wray talks more to your mother and me than to you.” “I wish he were struck dumb, and would never speak again,” replied Ismay viciously. “I don’t like him because I think he’s a bad man, that is why.” “Then I shall like him,” with defiance. “Bad men in books are always much the nicest; I have often longed to know one.” “Well, you have your wish!” returned Ismay calmly. “Listen, I hear wheels!” cried Cristiane suddenly. “There’s some one coming. Even if it’s only Miles, he shall stay to lunch.” Indifferently, since Miles was in London, Ismay followed her, to look out on the rain-beaten sweep of gravel. Yet could it be Miles? For a closed fly from the station was in front of the hall door.