Mr. Donald looked at her approvingly. Proper sentiments, certainly. Hardly to have been expected perhaps, brought up as she had been, and with her boyish hardness. He had never before seen a Carteret who did not look feminine, however imperious. He had met her twice before and had anticipated impatience, slang, and a total lack of respect. But Gita looked rather meek sitting there by the window and quite properly subdued. She had laid aside her hat, and her rough cropped head, which had excited her grandmother’s ire, and no less his own, was bent over a honeysuckle bush, inhaling its delicate fragrance. It was a beautiful head. Mr. Donald studied it against the light, and with approval. Lines of face and head perfectly balanced. Set on a long throat. Small high ears. A spirited profile and the magnificent black eyes of the Carterets. It was something, at least, that this girl was a Carteret in looks. But what was she inside that almost blasphemous exterior? Had she any regard for tradition, or would she take the bit in her teeth, laugh at his advice, sell the manor in spite of her promise to her grandmother, and behave like a young colt generally? She looked as if her next step would be to wear trousers, and Mr. Donald, who gave the present generation of young people his unqualified disapproval, wished she were more like them and less like an absent-minded compound of Old Dame Nature. He was a mere sixty, but he had inherited the Carterets from his father and known many of them, although none that gave him a clew to this last of the line. However, he was used to trouble and generally knew how to deal with it. He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and opening his bag, drew out a document. “This is the last will and testament of your grandmother,” he said solemnly, “and, as is customary, it is my duty to read it to the family immediately after the final ceremonies.” “Yes,” said Gita, smiling, “I always wanted to hear a will read. I know what is in it, but it will be fu—interesting, all the same.” Mr. Donald frowned. “This is not an occasion for levity, my dear Miss Carteret.” “Of course. Sorry. But I really do want to hear a will read.” “Are you romantic?” asked Mr. Donald hopefully. “Good lord, no! But I have a sense of drama.” “Well, I shall not argue the point. But I think—first—may I ring for Topper and order a glass of sherry? This really has been a very trying day.” “Indeed, yes!” There was no lack of Carteret hospitality at least. Topper brought the sherry and retired. Mr. Donald filled two glasses, handed one to Gita, and lifted his own gallantly. “Here’s to your very good health, Miss Carteret, and a long and useful life.” “Thanks,” said Gita dryly, but drinking the sherry, of which she suddenly felt the need. “Same to you. But please call me Gita. Miss Carteret doesn’t suit me at all.” “Ah!—well, yes—I’ll call you Gita with pleasure. And now I shall read this last testament of my dear old friend.”