As for Geoff, his selfishness was on the alert. His sister had never known young men and here were three, and of the three, one was unmistakably in love with her, and supposing she should marry again. The thought was like a chilly devil. It gave him the shivers. Clearly Margaret must be removed from the Perkins' home and the Perkins' influence. Fortunately, at this juncture, Madame Dennie's bankers in Paris forwarded a considerable sum of money, and notwithstanding his many resolutions to the contrary he permitted his habits to get the better of his purpose and with the major portion of the remittance in his possession, vanished from the quiet he had threatened to disturb. Then was experienced a sense of relief by all. They had been happy until he came. Margaret had imparted to their intercourse the charm of refinement—the gentlest of companionship, and this is the best of friendship and the best of love. It was a night or so after Geoff's departure. Perkins and Franz were in the library waiting for Margaret to join them. The former was worthily engaged in an attempt to improve the passing moments by vitriolic comments upon the morals of the profligate, a singularly congenial theme with him. He had aired his grievance against Geoff, and was basking in the agreeable glow of Franz's approval, when the door opened and Margaret entered the room. On seeing her he cried as if in astonishment: “Why! What———-” For Margaret was gowned entirely in some soft white fabric. He had never seen her in anything but black. “Why!—I say—” It was Perkins who spoke, surveying her with the greatest admiration. “I say, you never looked half so dear or beautiful!” Perkins was a privileged character, and said a good deal the rest could not but wish they might.