'I can't help thinking, old fellow, that the girl has been amusing herself with you, from the details you give me, and that a flirtation was all she wanted.' 'Fotheringhame!' 'Don't get excited. I am sure that, like other dear creatures, 'Her feet are so very little, Her hands are so very white; Her jewels are so very heavy, Her head so very light; Her colour is made of cosmetics, Though this she never will own; Her body's made mostly of cotton, Her heart is made wholly of stone.' 'This may apply to some goddess of yours,' said Falconer, becoming seriously ruffled; 'but as for me----' 'There will be no more larks or rows,' continued Fotheringhame, laughing; 'no more chance medley flirtations at picnics or lawn tennis, or even in the conservatory; our mind, or what is left of it, must run only on one ideal, and on presents of dainty gloves for lovely little hands, books and bouquets, chains, lockets, and bracelets, pressure of the taper fingers, perhaps even a chaste kiss, as Byron has it----' 'By Jove, Leslie, how you can gabble!' said Falconer, but without a smile, for something peculiarly uncomfortable and damping in the closing details of his visit to Eaglescraig haunted him. Perceiving this, Fotheringhame's banter ceased, and after a pause he said: 'Pardon me, Cecil, if my jokes annoy you; but if she does not wish to marry this fellow Hew, why should she?' 'Why?' 'Yes; no power can compel her. The day is passed when girls can be married against their will, except in novels. There may be, I am aware, a mild system of domestic pressure, a steady and persevering domestic tyranny, quite as mischievous in the end, sometimes, as the brute force of the terrible old baron or stern parent of the Middle Ages; and I have even known more than one case in which the feeble opposition of a girl has been foiled under the powerful home-current, as it flowed on and bore her away with it.' 'By Jove, Leslie, you _are_ a Job's comforter! And now, by-the-bye, there is another girl at Eaglescraig of whom I have not yet spoken--a lady on a visit.' 'And your mind was divided between them?' 'Not at all, though the beauty and style of Annabelle Erroll are indescribable.' '_Who_ did you say?' exclaimed Leslie Fotheringhame, as his voice and face changed curiously, he took the cigar from his lips and sat bolt upright in his chair. 'Annabelle Erroll; she knows you, by the way, and I hope the general will, in turn, invite you to Eaglescraig.' 'I hope not,' said Fotheringhame, sadly and fervently; 'by Jove, I hope not!' 'Why?' 'Why? Because I would not go under any circumstances or pressure, from what you tell me.' 'As to what, or whom? Hew Montgomerie?' 'Hew be hanged! No.' 'Who then?' 'Annabelle Erroll,' said Fotheringhame, uttering the name sadly, softly, and with unction. 'So, thereby hangs a tale.' 'Yes, old fellow--a devil of a tale I would rather not unfold.' 'Then you have had your little weakness too?'