"No, no, it is not your fault, my dear," cried Mrs Rolph, angrily; "it is mine, I can see it all now. It was a foolish mistake having her here. Educating a girl like that is a great error, and I see it now that it is too late. Oh, Madge, dear, if I could see him happily wedded to you, how different things might be. But I declare that nothing shall ever induce me to consent. If he will go on in utter rebellion to his mother, he must do so." "But is it too late, aunt?" "Unless you rouse yourself up to the position, act like a woman of the world, and drag him from this wretched girl. Oh, it is too disgraceful. If I had only thought to send her away before his regiment was quartered so near." "Yes," said Marjorie, musingly, "but it is too late now." "Then you will not try?" "I did not say so. Here he is." There was a step in the hall, the sound of a stick being thrust carelessly into a stand, and, directly after, Rolph tramped into the room. "Ah, Madge," he said, in a careless, easy way; and, ignoring the smile of welcome with which she greeted him, he walked across to his mother's chair. "Well," he said, "how is the head?" and he stooped down and kissed her brow. "Not at all well, my dear," she said affectionately. "I think I will go up to my room." "Have a drive, dear; I'll order the tandem out." "No, no, my dear, I shall be better soon." She rose, kissed him, and left the room. "Dodge to leave Madge and me together," muttered the young man. "All right. Bring things to a climax." "How very little we see of you, Robert," said Madge softly. "So much training?" "Health. Shows how wise I have grown. I'm like pepper; a little of me is very nice--too much an abomination." Marjorie sighed. "Hallo! Been reading poetry?" "No," said the girl, in a low, pained voice. "I was thinking." "Thinking, eh? What about?" "Of how changed you are from the nice frank boy who used to be so loving and tender." "Ah, I was rather a milksop, Madge; wasn't I?" "I never thought so; and it pains me to hear you speak so harshly of yourself. What has made you alter so?" "Ask Dame Nature. I was a boy; now I am a man." Marjorie sighed, and gave him a long, sad look. "Well," he said, "what is the matter?" She looked at him again, long and wistfully. "As if you did not know," she said. "Know? How should I know?" "Then I'll tell you," she cried quickly. "No, no; confide in some lady friend." "Robert," she said, in a low, husky voice, and her whole manner changed, her eyes flashed and the lines about her lips grew hard. "What have I done that you should treat me like this?" "Done? Nothing." "Then why have you turned so cold and hard to me?" "I am the same to you to-day that I have always been." "It is not true," she whispered, with her voice full of intensity of feeling, "you left no stone unturned to make me believe you cared for me." "Nonsense! Why--"