As for Katherine, he was and always had been for her the embodied type of all that a man should be. But she often told herself that she could not think of leaving her uncle to live alone; he so depended on her companionship. So perhaps she was in no great hurry for matters to ripen. It was enough for the present that Hamilton seemed to belong to her, consulted her, confided in her. She was placidly happy in the "friendship." For Hamilton Stirling to "consult" anyone meant only that he wanted approval of what he had done. Since Katherine always did approve, he found in her what he wanted. She was just thirty years old; and she looked her age, being pale, quiet, patrician to her very finger-tips. Many complained that she was proud and distant, and hard to know. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was proud—proud of her descent, of her blue blood, of her beautiful ancestral home, of her uncle. But if so, it was a humble and non-boasting type of pride; and she was also very shy, very self-distrustful; a not unusual combination. Hamilton, now in his thirty-ninth year, possessed the typical Stirling outline of feature, which was even and regular. Somehow he managed to be less good-looking than Nature—to use a popular phrase—had intended. He had none of the elder Stirling's charm of manner. He was too rigid, too measured, too sure of himself, whereby he often provoked other people, who could not for the life of them see why they too might not be sometimes in the right. But he never provoked Katherine; and that no doubt was partly why he so enjoyed her companionship. She always gave in to his views. At the end of fifty minutes, having done with extinct monsters and underground fire-seas, he broke new ground. Katherine found him to be discussing Doris Winton, of whom she was fond. An unwonted thrill became audible in his voice, and he even flushed slightly,—a most unusual phenomenon. It might have ranked for rarity among some of the pre-Adamite phenomena which he had been describing. Katherine, on the contrary, grew rather more pale; but she listened with her ordinary calm. "Yes," she said. "You want—what is it?" He showed a touch of displeasure at her inattention, and went over the ground again. He wished her to use her influence over Doris. That was the point; and Katherine had heard, but had doubted her own ears. Doris Winton was a gifted and most attractive girl; but—this between themselves—certainly a degree lacking in self-control. He ran through the little gamut of her faults, suggesting that, if Katherine would kindly exert herself, those faults would soon cease to exist. The thing which struck Katherine unexpectedly, as with a physical blow, was that he talked as one who had a personal interest in the matter. Doris was to be improved and shaped—for him! He did not say this, but he implied it. He wished her to be trained and educated up to his level.