She went on a voyage of discovery round the shelves while my aunt explained the object of their visit. Somebody, I forget who, had lent them a yacht. They were making up a party for a summer cruise in Norwegian fiords. The Thingummies and the So and So’s and Lord This and Miss That had promised to come, but they were sadly in need of a man to play host--I was to fancy three lone women at the mercy of the skipper. I did, and I didn’t envy the skipper. What more natural, gushed my aunt, than that they should turn to me, the head of the house, in their difficulty? “I am afraid, my dear aunt,” said I, “that my acquaintance with skipper-terrorising hosts is nil. I can’t suggest any one.” “But who asked you to suggest any one?” she laughed. “It is you yourself that we want to persuade to have pity on us.” “I have--much pity,” said I, “for if it’s rough, you’ll all be horribly seasick.” Dora ran across the room from the book-case she was inspecting. “I would like to shake him! He is only pretending he doesn’t understand. I don’t know what we shall do if you won’t come with us.” “You can’t refuse, Marcus. It will be an ideal trip--and such a comfortable yacht--and the deep blue fiords--and we’ve got a French chef. You will be doing us such a favour.” “Come, say ‘Yes,’” said Dora. I wish she were not such a bouncing Juno of a girl. Large, athletic women with hearty voices are difficult for one to deal with. I am a match for my aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words. But Dora doesn’t understand my satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, “Oh, rot!” which scatters my intellectual armoury. “It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me,” I said to my aunt, “and the proposal is tempting--the prospect is indeed fascinating--but--” “But what?” “I have so many engagements,” I answered feebly. My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to the bookshelves in the farther room. “Can’t you manage to throw them aside? Poor Dora will be inconsolable.” I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora’s broad back and sturdy hips. Inconsolable? I can’t make out what the good lady is driving at. If she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to parade me as her appanage. But titles in her drawing-room are as common as tea-cups. And the inconsolability of Dora-- “If I did come she would be bored to death,” said I. “She is willing to risk it.” “But why should she seek martyrdom?” “There is another reason,” said my aunt, ignoring my pertinent question, but glancing at me reassuringly “there is another reason why it would be well for you to come on this cruise with us.” She sank her voice. “You met Miss Gascoigne in the park last week--” “A very charming and kind young lady,” said I.