"Don't be a fool, Jem," cried Sir John. "Go, indeed! Why, what the dickens do you suppose I should do without you here? Tchah! tush! you go! Absurd. There, get dressed, man, and come down to dinner. No: come along down with me first, and we'll get a bottle or two out of the number six bin. There'll just be time." The major shook his head, as he looked at the bullock trunk and a very much bruised and battered old portmanteau waiting to be filled. "Now, Jem, old fellow, don't let's quarrel again," cried Sir John, pathetically. "No, no, certainly not, my dear Jack. No more quarrelling, but I think this time I'll hold to my word." "Now, my dear old fellow," cried Sir John, gripping his brother's shoulders more tightly, and shaking him to and fro, "do be reasonable. Look here: I've asked little Lucy Alleyne to come _sans facon_, and--" "Is she coming?" cried the major, eagerly. "Yes, and you can talk toadstools as long as you like." The major seemed to be hesitating, and he looked curiously at his brother. "Is Alleyne coming?" "I asked him, but he is very doubtful; perhaps he is glued to the end of his telescope for the next twelve hours. Here, have that confounded baggage put away." The major looked a little more thoughtful. He was hesitating, and thinking of Glynne, who just then tapped softly at the door. "Come in," roared Sir John; and she entered, looked quickly from one to the other, and then went up to her uncle, and kissed him affectionately. "There," cried Sir John, looking half-pleased, half-annoyed; "it's enough to make a man wish you would go, Jem." "No, it isn't," said the major, drawing his niece closer to him. "There, there, my dear, you were quite right. I'm a terrible old capsicum, am I not?" "No, uncle," said Glynne, nestling to him; "but hadn't we better forget all this?" "Right, my dear, right," cried Sir John. "There, come along, and let your uncle dress for dinner. Where's Rob?" "I think he went for a long walk, papa." "Humph! I hope he'll be in training at last," said Sir John, good-humouredly. "You're a lucky girl, Glynne, to have a man wanting to make himself perfect before he marries you. You ought to go and do likewise." "Don't try, Glynne, my dear," said her uncle affectionately. "A perfect woman would be a horror. You are just right as you are." "Well, you are not, Jem," said Sir John, laughing, "so make haste, and come down. Come along, Glynne." He led the way, and, as he passed through the door, Glynne turned to look back at her uncle, their eyes meeting in a peculiarly wistful, inquiring look, that seemed to suggest a mutual desire to know the other's thoughts. Then the door closed, and in the most matter-of-fact way, the major proceeded to dress for dinner as if he had never quarrelled with his brother in his life.