“Hindustani--Pushtoo!” broke in Mrs. Fenchurch impatiently, “he may get up what he likes, but he will never get my niece. She is the last sort of girl to follow the baggage wagon! Now,” laying a firm, detaining hand on the invalid’s shrunken arm, “please, don’t be romantic and impulsive, dearest Amy--you know your Irish heart is always too tender, and you are such an easy prey to beggars and impostors. I ask you to give me your help in working for the good of these two foolish children, and when I say good, I honestly mean it. As for years of indefinite waiting, letter-writing, and constancy, I set my face against that _absolutely_. I’ve known engagements--particularly where the man is in India--to drag on for years and years, and I certainly would not undertake to give Letty a home for such a time, especially if she was expecting to make a marriage of which I disapproved--yes” (second thought), “and her uncle too. And even if she were engaged to Lancelot for years, supposing he were to die? Such things do happen. Where should I be, then, with a disconsolate old maid on my hands?” “Then what do you propose to do?” asked a querulous voice from the sofa. “It is _you_, dearest Amy, not I, who will move in the affair.” “Oh, impossible--out of the question,” she protested with waving hands. “Yes, it is the most sensible and easiest solution. Were _I_ to interfere, it would add fuel to the flame--if flame there be--and Letty is so devoted to you that she will listen to whatever _you_ say, with patience and attention. You can tell her that your nephew’s regiment is next on the Roster for foreign service, and will not return for years and years.” “But he is only going to Gibraltar and Egypt,” objected Mrs. Denton. “And India,” amended the visitor in her most trenchant and matter-of-fact manner. “Assure her that his prospects are excellent, but that marriage would destroy them; that he has no money, and no thought of taking a wife----” “I’m afraid that last would not be true.” “Well, please say whatever you think best,” said Mrs. Fen irritably; “but do not leave one little chink of hope. Believe me it will be the truest kindness! When you reflect over what I have said, I know you will see that I am right.” “Yes, Dorothy,” assented Mrs. Denton; “I am aware that you have more practical common sense than all the rest of us put together--but--there is something beside common sense, isn’t there?--love--constancy?” “Oh, my dearest friend, the real name for your something is ‘_Nonsense_.’” Then, standing up and arranging her boa, she added impressively, “Surely, Amy, you have your boy’s interest at heart, and is it to his interest, that he should marry a girl who has not a penny piece, and comes of a notoriously consumptive family?” She paused to allow this shaft to go home, and then continued: