We talked to Elizabeth, however, or at least I did, without any mention of this. There were many knick-knacks about, on the mantelpiece, on the tables, on brackets set in corners--all the work of that ingenious, useless man, Mr. Robert Fortinbras. As we talked, Elizabeth moved gracefully about among these, her duster never hurried, never idle. I never saw any one who could "play at work" as Elizabeth could. Any one else would have sat down and received her guests. Not so Elizabeth. If we chose to come at eleven o'clock in the morning--well, we must take her as we found her. In another quarter of an hour, if we stayed, we would be asked to come into her kitchen, and watch her peeling potatoes. And that would have seemed quite natural--not only to Elizabeth, but to us. Elizabeth did not reply hastily. She heard me out without sign either of consent or of refusal. Mrs. Donnan, stout and motherly, purred acquiescence. Yes, they would give her the warmest welcome--if she cared to stay, the happiest home. But no doubt she would prefer to return to her own home at nights. The next words which reached our ears were Elizabeth all over. "If I come, I shall stay," she said, "because if I went home, the work of the house would simply be left till I got back!" The reason was clear, and almost the consent. "Had you not better consult your father and mother?" I said, a little breathlessly, having been brought up in the faith of obedience to parents. But in this matter Elizabeth, taught by long experience, had evolved other methods. "I will _tell_ them," she said simply. "When do you want me to begin? Monday? Very well!" And it was on Tuesday that Nipper Donnan began to neglect his business. XI ELIZABETH _September 11 of the same year. Going Sixteen now._ Now I suppose you think this is going to be a love-story. But it isn't--at least not so far. And I am sure the hero won't be either of the two _you_ think--not, that is, Hugh John or Nipper Donnan. But I am going to tell the story of the strangest, the delicatest friendship I have ever seen--that of Hugh John, my brother, and Elizabeth Fortinbras. He is the youngest hero you can imagine, but somehow is much more like a young man who has shaved himself very close than the schoolboy he is. Nothing puts Hugh John out. When he has some big festival to attend along with father, he sits quiet and self-possessed, doing his part without a quiver on his face. As far as looks go, he could easily be the chairman. The clean-cut outlines of his face do not denote hardness. Only he is of the Twentieth Century, and an adept at concealing his sensations--even from his parents, with whom he is great friends.