“She is, and more or less an invalid, utterly broken down by years of Burma. Mrs. Krauss is apathetic, dull, and boneless, and looks as if you could fold her up and put her in a bag. Herr Krauss is a fat, loud-talking, trampling German—_not_ a gentleman, but a man with a keen eye to business. His wife’s half-caste maid who waited upon her, managed the house, and was with her for years, has married and gone to Australia, and poor Sophy has been imported to replace the treasure; that is, to nurse her aunt, run the house, and play the old bounder’s accompaniments, for he, like Nero, is musical. He is also a friend of that odious Bernhard’s. Bernhard is a well-born Prussian—I’ll say that for him—the other is of the waiter class, who has made his money in China and Burma.” “Oh, come, I say, this is rather bad! What’s to be done?” “I only wish I knew. The Krauss abode is large and gloomy—it looks like a house in a bad temper, and stands in the heart of the German community; the servants seemed a low-class lot, the rooms were dark and untidy, and smelt of mould and medicine, but Sophy was just as bright and cheerful as usual; apparently delighted with everything—loyal, of course, to her own blood. Now, I know that you and Sophy are friends, and I want you to keep an eye upon her,” concluded this injudicious matron. “I’m afraid my eye will not be of much use,” protested Shafto, “I am most frightfully sorry for what you tell me, but Miss Leigh has lots of pals. There are the Pomeroys, Maitlands and——” “Yes, that’s true,” interrupted Mrs. Milward impatiently, “but she has no way of getting about. Krauss takes the car and is away in it all day. I gather that he has the strict German idea about a girl’s being brought up to cook, to sew, to slave, to find _all_ her interests in her home! In fact, he told me so plainly; he also added that he had paid for Sophy’s passage and implied that he intended to have the worth of his money—his pound of flesh!” “Brute!” ejaculated Shafto. “Agreed! I have enlisted one friend for the poor child. Polly Gregory—she is so clever, clear-headed and decided, and will be a rock of strength—she is sure to like Sophy, eh?” “Oh yes, that will be all right!” “I put in a good word for you too, Master Douglas.” “That was kind,” and he swept off his straw hat. “I wonder if that’s meant sarcastic? Perhaps you think good wine needs no bush? Yes, and I’ve told Polly I knew you as a boy—and how, instead of quill-driving, you hoped to wear a sword.” “Hope told a flattering tale,” he answered with a laugh. “Don’t forget that the pen is the mightier of the two.”