“Yes, I do care,” he said; “I care horribly. I care every day. I hate being on bad terms with any one. I hate anger and resentment,” he added, with a little quiet air of dignity, for he had not wholly liked Lady Sunningdale’s remarks. “That was one of Nature’s most extraordinary conjuring tricks,” she said. “People talk of heredity; but put all the fathers of England in a row, and ask any one to pick out Martin’s. The better they know either of you, by so much the more will they pick out Mr. Challoner last of all!” Martin got up. “Ah, don’t let’s talk about it,” he said; “it is not agreeable. I wish I could laugh about it like you, but I can’t.” Then, with a quick intuition, he turned to Stella. “One can’t do any good by talking about it, can one?” he asked. Something still jarred on the girl, due partly to their talk before Lady Sunningdale came in. “You have admirable common sense,” she said. Lady Sunningdale caught on to this with her usual quickness. She knew for certain from Stella’s tone that something had gone just a shade wrong between them. “And you find it rather trying, do you not, dearest Stella?” she said. “Of course, Martin is the most trying person in the world; and if it wasn’t for his ten fingers he would be absolutely intolerable. He is a boy of about twelve, with dreadful streaks of common sense worthy of a man of fifty who has left all his illusions behind him. Yes, monster, that is you!” Martin raised his eyebrows, his excellent temper slightly ruffled for the moment. “Indeed, I didn’t recognise it,” he said. “Dear Martin, don’t be pompous. You didn’t recognise it because it wasn’t flattering. They say we women are vain, but compared to men---- Some women are vain of their appearance, it is true, and usually without sufficient cause, but all men are vain of every attribute that God has or has not endowed them with. Remember that, Stella, and if you want to lead a quiet life, lay on flattery with a spade. They are insatiable. Personally I don’t flatter Sunningdale, because I don’t in the least want a quiet life. Tranquility is so frightfully aging and makes one like an oyster.” Martin had recovered his serenity. “When I am dead,” he remarked, “you will be sorry for what you have said. But why this sudden attack on me?” “When you are dead you will see how right I was. But the attack--well, chiefly because you haven’t provoked it. That is so tiresome of you. You could see I wanted to quarrel, and you wouldn’t say anything I could lay hold of. If I want to sit down, politeness ordains that you should give me a chair. If you see I want to quarrel, politeness ordains that you should give me a pretext. It is the worst possible manners not to. My nerves are all on edge. When that is the case, the only thing to do is to quiet them by being rude to other people. Dearest Stella, you look too lovely this afternoon. Why you want to throw yourself away on Martin I can’t think!”