"I heard something of it in the village," Lestrange admitted gravely. "Please do not think me fond of gossip; I could not avoid it. But I should not have imagined this a family likely to make low marriages." "It never happened before. I never saw that cousin, nor did Dick; but he was always a disappointment, always, Uncle Ethan has told me. And since he failed, and Dick fails, there is only me." "You!" She nodded, her lip quivering. "Only me. Not as a substitute--I am not fit for that--but to find a substitute. I have promised my uncle to marry the first one who is able to be that." The silence was absolute. Lestrange neither moved nor spoke, gazing down at her bent head with an expression blending many shades. "It is a duty; there is no one except me," she added. "Only sometimes I grow--to dislike it too much. I am so selfish that sometimes I hope a substitute will never come." Her voice died away. It was done; she, Emily Ffrench, had deliberately confided to this stranger that which an hour before she would have believed no one could force from her lips in articulate speech. And she neither regretted nor was ashamed, although there was time for full realization before Lestrange answered. "I did not believe," he said, "that such things could be done. It is nonsense, of course, but such magnificent nonsense! It is the kind of situation, Miss Ffrench, where any man is justified in interfering. I beg you will leave the affair in my hands and think no more of such morbid self-sacrifice." Stupefied, Emily flung back her head, staring at him. "In _your_ hands?" "Since there are none better, it appears. Why," his vivid face questioned her full and straightly, "you didn't imagine that any man living could hear what you are doing, and pass on?" "My uncle knows--" "Your uncle--is not for me to criticize. But do not ask any other man to let you go on." Her ideas reeling, she struggled for comprehension. "You, what could you do?" she marveled. "The substitute--" "There won't be any substitute," replied Lestrange with perfect coolness. "I shall train Dick Ffrench to do his work." "You--" "I can, and I will." "He can not--" "Oh, yes, he can; he is just idle and spoiled," the firm lips set more firmly. "He shall take his place. I can handle him." Emily sat quite helplessly, her eyes black with excitement. Slowly recollection flowed back to her of a change in Dick since his light contact with Lestrange; his avoidance of even occasional highballs, his awakening interest in the clean sport of the races, and his half-wistful admiration for the virile driver-manager. "I almost believe you could," she conceded. "I can," repeated Lestrange. "Only," he openly smiled, "it will be hard on Dickie." It was the touch needed, the antidote to sentiment. Emily laughed with him, laughed in sheer mischief and relief and leap of youth. "You will be gentle--poor Dickie!"