Sir Eustace himself saw that his brother’s taciturnity had spoilt his little dinner, and his temper was not improved thereby. He was not accustomed to have his dinners spoiled, and felt that, so far as the Under-Secretary was concerned, he had put himself into a false position. “My dear George,” he said in a tone of bland exasperation when they had got back to the Albany, “I wonder what can be the matter with you? I told Atherleigh that you would be able to post him up thoroughly about all this Bechuana mess, and he could not get a word out of you.” His brother absently filled his pipe before he answered: “The Bechuanas? Oh, yes, I know all about them. I lived among them for a year.” “Then why on earth didn’t you tell him what you knew? You put me in rather a false position.” “I am very sorry, Eustace,” he answered humbly. “I will go and see him if you like, and explain the thing to him to-morrow. The fact of the matter is, I was thinking of something else.” Sir Eustace interrogated him with a look. “I was thinking,” he went on slowly, “about Mad—about Lady Croston.” “Oh!” “I went to see her this afternoon, and I think, I hope, that I am going to marry her.” If Bottles expected that this great news would be received by his elder brother as such news ought to be received—with congratulatory rejoicing—he was destined to be disappointed. “Good heavens!” ejaculated Sir Eustace shortly, letting his eyeglass drop. “Why do you say that, Eustace?” Bottles asked uneasily. “Because—because,” answered his brother in the emphatic tone which was his equivalent for strong language, “you must be mad to think of such a thing.” “Why must I be mad?” “Because you, still a young man, with all your life before you, deliberately propose to tie yourself up to a middle-aged and _passée_ woman—she is extremely _passée_ by daylight, let me tell you—who has already treated you like a dog, and is burdened with a couple of children, and who, if she marries again, will bring you very little except her luxurious tastes. But I expected this. I thought she would try to catch you with those languishing black eyes of hers. You are not the first; I know her of old.” “If,” said his brother, rising in dudgeon, “you are going to abuse Madeline to me, I think I had better say good night, for we shall quarrel—which I would not do for anything.” Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. “Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad,” he muttered, as he lit his hand candle. “This is what comes of a course of South Africa.”