“You see now,” continued Lady Milmo, “how wise it was to make that condition about your engagement. I don't want to say anything against Roderick, but he's an impossible visionary, dear. I always hated the idea of your marrying him. It is all broken off now, isn't it?” To Lady Milmo's great astonishment, the girl suddenly burst into a fit of miserable crying. She knelt by her and petted her comfortingly. “It will be quite easy, my child. I will write him a kind little note about it, and you can go down to Ayresford and take care of that dear Uncle Matthew of yours.” “Oh, auntie,” cried Ella at last, “you don't understand. I promised Roderick this afternoon to marry him in a fortnight's time.” CHAPTER XIV--AT AYRESFORD Whilst the meeting was taking place that brought the Walden Art Colony to ludicrous collapse, Sylvester was on his way to Ayresford to pay one of his periodical Saturday to Monday visits. Matthew, with Dorothy clinging to his finger, met him at the station. Sylvester took the child up in his arms and kissed her, striving hard to respond to her demonstrations of affection. But his heart had turned from her. She was the embodiment of a perpetual pain. Sylvester's bag being taken in charge by the gardener's boy, the trio walked up to the house, Dorothy skipping between them. The old man looked proudly and lovingly down at her. Sylvester caught the glance from time to time, and a pang queerly like jealousy passed through him. If only he could love the small thing as he had loved her two years ago! But it was impossible. It was a question of blood instinct; she came of an alien race. He passed the house where he had lived with Constance, where Frank Leroux had died after the confession of his miserable secret. To the man's gloomy fancy it appeared a lie in brick. Only when he found himself alone with his father in the familiar library did he put away these imaginings and wear a clearer brow. “I hope the marriage is as far off as ever,” said Matthew, warming his hands before the fire. Sylvester laughed. “It seems to be postponed to the Greek Kalends. She won't marry until he takes her to this Colony in the air--and that will be never. The whole thing will die a natural death.” “I hope so indeed,” replied Matthew, reflectively. “She ought to marry a better man.” He glanced involuntarily at his son, and their eyes met, and each saw that the other understood the reference. “I know you wanted me to marry her,” said Sylvester, awkwardly. “I couldn't. I'm sorry.” Matthew raised his hand, as if about to speak; but the habit of reserve held him back. A word might have unlocked the son's heart, but the word remained unspoken. Sylvester dismissed the subject by saying in a lighter manner,-- “It's none of my business, but I often wonder what Roderick lives on.” “He is an artist and a literary man. I suppose he sells his wares,” said Matthew.