When my friend Bernard O’Hagan sees his course plainly, there are squalls a-brewing for any unhappy wight who queries the Captain’s navigation. ————— III. NATURAL SELECTION. Moira sat out a dance with O’Hagan in the conservatory. Needless to say, the Captain does not dance. McIvor’s sighful acknowledgment of the girl’s disappearance rose above the music. Repton’s Mephistophelian glare pierced palm and fern. But Moira blushed, and settled down _tête-à-tête_. “My dear little girl,” said O’Hagan blandly, “you are so very pretty and charming, that I am going to talk to you seriously about your lovers.” Moira gasped as the amazing Captain took her hand and patted it paternally. Without preamble he had placed the conversation upon a thrilling level. It was a unique experience, but she rather liked it. “Now, I sincerely hope you do not care for Mr. Repton,” continued O’Hagan; “because late to-night or early to-morrow morning I propose to pull his nose!” “Oh!” said Moira. But the language of her eloquent eyes added: “Do him good!” “He has asked you to marry him?” (A rebellious glance). “Has he not?” (Slight nod). “You have not yet given him your answer?” (Head-shake). “I am glad of that; because I want you to marry Bruce McIvor,” explained O’Hagan judicially. “Indeed!” snapped Moira, with a mutinous shrug of pretty shoulders. “Yes,” said O’Hagan. “I will tell you why. He is a handsome, fine man, and one of a brave and ancient race. He loves you in a way altogether different from Repton’s way.” “Has he told you so?”—frigidly. “No. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him yet! But it is so. With the stimulus of your affection, Moira, with the chance of such a prize as you, he will go far. I understand men of family, my dear, and I tell you that Bruce is a splendid fellow. As for you, Moira, I can only say that I should like to marry you, myself! But since that is impossible, I want it to be Bruce.” He was curiously impersonal; a kind of directing Beneficence which from an Olympic height smoothed the tangled skeins of lesser lives. But there was a finality in his pronouncements against whose thrall the girl fought stubbornly with all the armoury of her woman-soul. For another than Bernard O’Hagan thus to have championed McIvor must have spelled ruin for McIvor’s cause; but if O’Hagan had been pressing the suit of an unknown, and not that of one towards whom the girl was predisposed favourably, his advocacy must have told. Moira experienced a sense of weakness; later, of absolute futility. Once submit to the yoke of O’Hagan’s regal patronage, and you are lost. You become a mere pawn. His majestic interference is a stupendous force. Mr. Repton appeared to claim a dance. Muffled thunder seemed to be called for and a little incidental music in the form of a sustained chord in G minor.