"Poor beggar!" he chuckled. "Oh, it’s rich!" Then he sobered. "But—were you mad, Nell? To make up bogeys in your mind and go rushing off like that—" "I don’t know, Denis," she said humbly. "I don’t know what was the matter with me to-day. I—I never was so silly at home. I felt sort of funny all day, I think." He was frowning. "I don’t like it at all—your going off to Lancaster like that! It was jolly decent of Herr Schmidt to go with you. You ought to have known better, Nell." "Yes." He looked at her irritatedly. "Don’t be so beastly meek! You know you’ve been awfully idiotic all round. And you’ve made me look a most consummate fool, and"—his mouth widened again in spite of himself—"you’ve slanged poor Lancaster most unwarrantably. It was awfully rude, you know, and quite mad. He really hasn’t been leading your little twin astray. As a matter of fact, it was he who squashed my idea of making money by going in for big lotteries. He’s got a level head, and he reasoned it all out on paper and proved some way or other that I stood, ten to one, or a hundred to one, or something, to lose in the end. I’ve only been teasing you when I talked about going in for them. I didn’t know you were bothering about it. And I never thought of the beastly things when I scrawled that note off to you. I’ve never been in for any sweepstake or thing of that kind except that one I told you of. I hope you think you’ve made enough fuss all round about nothing!" Nell was silent. She seemed to have no spark of spirit left. She made no defence. Suddenly he rose and came to her. He caught her shoulders and shook her. "There, never mind, you poor meek little goose! You’d better be off to bed, and sleep some sense into your soft old head." She was struggling desperately against tears. "I—I’m awfully sorry, Denis—and ashamed—I—I do believe I was mad—" "Course you were," cheerfully, "temporary insanity. It’s this beastly London fog got into your brain. I’ll make it all right with Lancaster—tell him you’re sorry and all that." She winced. "Yes—please," she said. "And—and you won’t—feel that you—that I—" "I’ve forgotten all about it already, old girl!" he declared generously. *CHAPTER VIII* "What d’you think I’m let in for, Nell O’Brien?" "I don’t know. I haven’t a guess in me. Aunt Kezia has squashed me flat. I’ve low instincts, Denis,—think of that! And no sense of what is befitting a young lady, and all sorts of other things. Oh, I’m a bad character entirely!" He flung down his hat. "Think I didn’t know all that already? What made our respected aunt discover it?"