For Bethune was a man to whom his friends turned instinctively in trouble, with--perhaps?--no memory that, on other occasions more hilarious, they voted this "quiet chap" a trifle "slow." "Turned you down--eh? Not that Merrod woman?" "Good Lord, no! I've done with her. It's a girl ... a young girl. Or rather her father! I'm feeling a bit hipped over it all." He told the story from beginning to end, Bethune listening with an occasional grunt. "Nice sort of man for a father-in-law! Seems to me you're well out of it." "But I don't want to be! Never mind Cadell! I'm not marrying the family." Bethune smiled. "I'm hard hit this time--and I'll see it through--if it comes to a good old Gretna Green bolt!" "Better take my car," Bethune was amused--"You're a Scotchman, aren't you? Once across the border you've only got to say you're husband and wife and the thing's fair and square, I understand." "Jove! I never thought of it." McTaggart looked up. "She's the prettiest thing you ever set eyes on." "Anything like Jill?" "Not a scrap!" The sudden contrast checked his flow of words on the crest of a lover-like flood of description. Then followed one of those swift afterthoughts peculiar to his analytical brain. The difference was not all to Cydonia's advantage; she lacked the mentality of the other girl. Angrily he thrust aside the fleeting disloyalty as Bethune went on in his calm voice. "I don't see why the old man was so riled? ... You're quite decent to look at----" his honest eyes twinkled--"and you've got a steady income, rare in these days. What does he want? A title, I suppose. Some young ass with debts who'll make her 'milady.'" "That's about it." McTaggart scowled. "D'you think she'll stand by you?" "Of course," said the lover. "Then--that's all serene. I don't suppose you hanker for fatherly attention and the family circle?" "Well, not much!" McTaggart shuddered. "He's utterly impossible. The mother's not so bad--too stiff, you know, and conscious of her 'dignity,' but quite presentable--pass in a crowd." "Then go in and win, my son." Silence fell between them and at last McTaggart rose to his feet. "I'm going to have some nourishment--I missed supper, you know." Bethune grinned. "That's a nasty jar! He might have stood you a parting drink." "I'll come back presently----" but still he lingered. His whiskey and soda had quenched his thirst and he found he had but little taste for food. Mechanically he gathered up his letters; then sat down again in his chair. "I'll read these first--it isn't late." "Lost your appetite?" Bethune rubbed it in. His friend, ignoring this ignoble sally, began to tear open the envelopes. At the bottom of the pile was a large square letter which he recognized as bearing his lawyer's writing.