Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down. She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle--it was odd, she felt, how she seemed to have constituted herself Ginger's champion and protector--but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, to hear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured and conciliated. “But what happened? What was all the trouble about?” Mr. Carmyle's eyebrows met. “He--insulted his uncle. His uncle Donald. He insulted him--grossly. The one man in the world he should have made a point of--er--” “Keeping in with?” “Yes. His future depended upon him.” “But what did he do?” cried Sally, trying hard to keep a thoroughly reprehensible joy out of her voice. “I have heard no details. My uncle is reticent as to what actually took place. He invited Lancelot to dinner to discuss his plans, and it appears that Lancelot--defied him. Defied him! He was rude and insulting. My uncle refuses to have anything more to do with him. Apparently the young fool managed to win some money at the tables at Roville, and this seems to have turned his head completely. My uncle insists that he is mad. I agree with him. Since the night of that dinner nothing has been heard of Lancelot.” Mr. Carmyle broke off to brood once more, and before Sally could speak the impressive bulk of Fillmore loomed up in the aisle beside them. Explanations seemed to Fillmore to be in order. He cast a questioning glance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being in conversation with his sister, had collared his seat. “Oh, hullo, Fill,” said Sally. “Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We met abroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle.” Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr. Carmyle. His air of being someone in particular appealed to him. “Strange you meeting again like this,” he said affably. The porter, who had been making up berths along the car, was now hovering expectantly in the offing. “You two had better go into the smoking room,” suggested Sally. “I'm going to bed.” She wanted to be alone, to think. Mr. Carmyle's tale of a roused and revolting Ginger had stirred her. The two men went off to the smoking-room, and Sally found an empty seat and sat down to wait for her berth to be made up. She was aglow with a curious exhilaration. So Ginger had taken her advice! Excellent Ginger! She felt proud of him. She also had that feeling of complacency, amounting almost to sinful pride, which comes to those who give advice and find it acted upon. She had the emotions of a creator. After all, had she not created this new Ginger? It was she who had stirred him up. It was she who had unleashed him. She had changed him from a meek dependent of the Family to a ravening creature, who went about the place insulting uncles.