Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as though he would inherit the title). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down at Stanmore. Her fiance was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and remained his truly, Gladys Brill. Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which suggested rough copies and even some assistance from the old vintages of the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, by him and his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr. Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always using a capital S for station--(as though Vaughan had expressed an insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he remained very respectfully, Tom Brill. "A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them come round." Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile again. But he did. CHAPTER XXXII TENSION When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the little marble terrace reading _Count Florio and Phillis K._ and smoking cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late. Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him, petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own. "But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong." "So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should have more individuality." "What an awful word," she said. "What's the matter with the word?" "Nothing. It's so long." "You're talking nonsense, Valentia." "Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her." "I know. But there needn't be nothing else." "Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."