“I have nothing,” she said, faltering. To tell what was not strictly true, and to refuse what her cousin asked, were things equally dreadful to Margaret--and it was a relief to her when Lady Piercey’s window was jerked open by a rapid hand, and the old lady’s head appeared suddenly thrust out. “You’re not talking to him, Meg; you’re letting him talk to you. Don’t let us have more of that. You’re there to give him good advice, and that’s what we expect of you. Don’t you hear?” And the window was snapt with another emphatic jerk. “Gervase, I am to advise you,” said Margaret, trembling, though the situation was ludicrous enough, and she might have laughed had the case been other than her own. The watchful eye upon her from the window, the totally unadvisable young man by her side, were not, however, ludicrous but dreadful to Margaret. Her sense of humour was obscured by the piteous facts of the case: the young man entirely insensible to any reason, and his mother, who had never lost her primitive faith that if some one only “talked to him,” Gervase would be just as sensible as other men. “But how can I advise you? I am troubled about what you are going to do. I hope you will not do anything to grieve them, Gervase. They are old people----” “Yes,” said Gervase, with a nod and a look of wisdom; “they are pretty old.” “They are old people,” said Margaret, “and they have a great many things to put up with: they have illnesses and weakness--and they have anxiety about you.” “They needn’t trouble their heads about me. I’ve got some one to look after me. She said it wasn’t I,” cried Gervase with a chuckle. “That is while you are in London; but they think of you all day long, and are always thinking of you. You will not do anything to grieve them, Gervase, while you are away?” “How can I when I’m going to be looked after all the time, and somebody to meet me at the station?” cried Gervase, with his loud laugh.