"Absurd!" she muttered. Then to Phyllys, with a constrained smile, "You and I must make the most of each other. Colin is treating us cavalierly." "He must be very fond of modelling," the girl said, as they went through the hall. "A great deal too fond. Such a waste of time." "Do you think so? My father used to love it. They said he was a born sculptor." She had an odd impression that her words had administered a blow. Tightening lips and drawn brows showed strong feeling. Not till they were seated did a reply come, with evident unconsciousness of the interval. "There are so many things better worth doing." Phyllys wisely resolved to avoid a discussion. Mrs. Wyverne, despite opposition from Barbara and exhortations from Miss Robins, on the score of encouraging vanity, had taken care that her grandchild should not do her discredit. Phyllys had one evening frock, which she wore now, pretty, and in good taste. Perhaps she felt its prettiness a trifle thrown away under present circumstances; yet she enjoyed herself. The great dining-room, with its ancestral portraits, its heavy silver candelabra, its antique furniture, its well-laid table, its flowers, its butler and footman waiting in deferential silence, all laid pleasant hold upon her. She had no sense of embarrassment. Everything seemed natural and as should be. Travelling abroad in childhood, and being much among grown-up people before the age of thirteen, had given her an ease which she could not have acquired in Midfell alone, despite the old lady's excellent manners. Great as was the contrast between Castle Hill arrangements and those of Burn Cottage, she behaved as if all her life used to the former. Mrs. Keith, narrowly observant, was more and more satisfied. The slight upset to her equanimity, whatever it had meant, passed off, and she talked continuously. When they returned to the drawing-room, Mr. Dugdale appeared, making at once for Phyllys. "I knew your father well," was his first remark. "Wyverne and I were friends. He was one of the best men it has ever been my good fortune to come across." Had Mr. Dugdale set himself to win her liking, he could have chosen no wiser method. For years she had lived among those who condemned her father—Barbara "in toto;" the old lady, not without deep motherly love, yet with grief and regret, because on certain religious points he had not seen with herself. And here was one who had known him, had understood him. Her heart went out towards the elderly man, with his cool cynical manner. Let him be what he might, he had cared for her father. Mr. Dugdale adjusted his pince-nez, and examined her with interest. Then Colin came in. "Sorry to have been so unsociable. I hope you forgive me," he said, as he shook hands with Phyllys. He spoke in a low dragging voice, and found a seat where his face was in shade. "Why did you not come to dinner?" his mother asked in displeasure. "I thought you would excuse me for once,"—cheerfully.