After that strange outburst, Lennan considered long whether he should speak to Oliver. But what could he say, from what standpoint say it, and—with that feeling? Or should he speak to Dromore? Not very easy to speak on such a subject to one off whose turf all spiritual matters were so permanently warned. Nor somehow could he bring himself to tell Sylvia; it would be like violating a confidence to speak of the child's outburst and that quivering moment, when she had kneeled and put her hot forehead to his lips for comfort. Such a disclosure was for Nell herself to make, if she so wished. And then young Oliver solved the difficulty by coming to the studio himself next day. He entered with 'Dromore' composure, very well groomed, in a silk hat, a cut-away black coat and charming lemon-coloured gloves; what, indeed, the youth did, besides belonging to the Yeomanry and hunting all the winter, seemed known only to himself. He made no excuse for interrupting Lennan, and for some time sat silently smoking his cigarette, and pulling the ears of the dogs. And Lennan worked on, waiting. There was always something attractive to him in this young man's broad, good-looking face, with its crisp dark hair, and half-insolent good humour, now so clouded. At last Oliver got up, and went over to the unfinished 'Girl on the Magpie Horse.' Turning to it so that his face could not be seen, he said: “You and Mrs. Lennan have been awfully kind to me; I behaved rather like a cad yesterday. I thought I'd better tell you. I want to marry Nell, you know.” Lennan was glad that the young man's face was so religiously averted. He let his hands come to anchor on what he was working at before he answered: “She's only a child, Oliver;” and then, watching his fingers making an inept movement with the clay, was astonished at himself. “She'll be eighteen this month,” he heard Oliver say. “If she once gets out—amongst people—I don't know what I shall do. Old Johnny's no good to look after her.” The young man's face was very red; he was forgetting to hide it now. Then it went white, and he said through clenched teeth: “She sends me mad! I don't know how not to—If I don't get her, I shall shoot myself. I shall, you know—I'm that sort. It's her eyes. They draw you right out of yourself—and leave you—” And from his gloved hand the smoked-out cigarette-end fell to the floor. “They say her mother was like that. Poor old Johnny! D'you think I've got a chance, Mr. Lennan? I don't mean now, this minute; I know she's too young.” Lennan forced himself to answer. “I dare say, my dear fellow, I dare say. Have you talked with my wife?” Oliver shook his head. “She's so good—I don't think she'd quite understand my sort of feeling.” A queer little smile came up on Lennan's lips. “Ah, well!” he said, “you must give the child time. Perhaps when she comes back from Ireland, after the summer.” The young man answered moodily: