“I tell you,” repeated Lord Valleys, “Miltoun's no good in a matter of this sort—he and his ideas throw back to the Middle Ages.” Lady Valleys went closer, and took him by the lapels of his collar. “Geoff-really, to please me; some other way!” Lord Valleys frowned, staring at her for some time; and at last answered: “To please you—I'll leave it over another year.” “You think that's better than letting?” “I don't like the thought of some outsider there. Time enough to come to that if we must. Take it as my Christmas present.” Lady Valleys, rather flushed, bent forward and kissed his ear. It was at this moment that little Ann had entered. When she was gone, and they had exchanged that dubious look, Lady Valleys said: “I came about Babs. I don't know what to make of her since we came up. She's not putting her heart into things.” Lord Valleys answered almost sulkily: “It's the heat probably—or Claud Harbinger.” In spite of his easy-going parentalism, he disliked the thought of losing the child whom he so affectionately admired. “Ah!” said Lady Valleys slowly, “I'm not so sure.” “How do you mean?” “There's something queer about her. I'm by no means certain she hasn't got some sort of feeling for that Mr. Courtier.” “What!” said Lord Valleys, growing most unphilosophically red. “Exactly!” “Confound it, Gertrude, Miltoun's business was quite enough for one year.” “For twenty,” murmured Lady Valleys. “I'm watching her. He's going to Persia, they say.” “And leaving his bones there, I hope,” muttered Lord Valleys. “Really, it's too much. I should think you're all wrong, though.” Lady Valleys raised her eyebrows. Men were very queer about such things! Very queer and worse than helpless! “Well,” she said, “I must go to my meeting. I'll take her, and see if I can get at something,” and she went away.