Dr. Harry, who, as he always explained to people, was continually nine hundred and ninety-nine days at sea without meeting a lady, could be counted on doing anything for one once he had the chance of being ashore. Even a half-grown lady of Elma’s type. "Mr. Maclean shall stand on his head inside of three minutes," he promised her. Elma noticed a new twinkle in his eye. It enabled her to take her courage in both hands and confess to him. "I’m always trying to use long words, Cousin Harry. It’s like having measles every three minutes. It was awfully nice of you not to laugh. I went to look it up, you know." Nothing pleased Elma so much as the naturalness with which she made this confession. She felt more worldly and developed than she could have considered possible. Cousin Harry roared. "Try it on the Maclean man," he said. But Mr. Leighton had that guest in tow, and they talked art and politics until tea appeared. Elma did all she could in connection with the passing of cups to get near him, but Cuthbert and Harry and Mr. Maclean were too diligent themselves. She saw Mr. Maclean’s eyes fixed on Mabel when she at last gained her opportunity. Mabel had gone in a very careful manner, hair being her chief concern, to play a Ballade of Chopin, and this provided an excellent moment for Elma to sidle into a chair close to Mr. Maclean. It was pure politeness, she observed, which allowed anyone to stare as much as one liked while a girl played the piano. Mr. Maclean was quite polite. Mabel had the supreme talent which already had made a name for the Leighton girls. She could take herself out of trivial thoughts and enter a magic world where one dreamed dreams. Into this new world she could lift most people with the first touch of her fingers on the keys of the piano. Elma’s thoughts soared with the others, and Mabel played till a little rebellious lock of the newly arranged plaits fell timorously on her neck. She closed with a low beautiful chord. Mr. Maclean sighed gently. Elma leant towards him. "You know the--er--Dudgeons, don’t you? Do you know the eldest?" He nodded. "Is Mabel like her?" she asked anxiously. "Mabel," said Mr. Maclean. "Yes, Mabel. Is she--almost--as pretty, do you think?" "Mabel is a thousand times more pretty than Miss Dudgeon," said Mr. Maclean. "Oh, Mr. Maclean!" said Elma. He could not have understood her sigh of rapture if he had tried to. At that moment his thoughts were not on Elma. She was quite content. She sank back on the large easy chair which she had appropriated, and she felt as though she had brought up a large family and just at that moment seen them settled in life. "Oh, I do feel heavenly," she whispered to herself. "Mabel is prettier than Adelaide Maud." "I beg your pardon?" asked Mr. Maclean. "Oh, nothing--nothing," said Elma. "I don’t even care about emb--emb--Do you mind if I ask you?" she inquired. "Is it embarr*ass*ment or emb*arr*assment?"