‘It couldn’t possibly be, you know,’ said Bertha, with a laugh, not specifying what the ‘it’ might be. ‘It’s not possible, of course. But it will be fun to tease Phil about it, just to see what he says.’ ‘I’d advise you not to say anything at all about it,’ said Matilda. ‘You’ll only annoy him.’ ‘Nonsense! Phil and I are capital friends. He likes fun as much as I do.’ ‘Well, do as you like,’ returned Matilda, thinking to herself that if Bertha chose to go and spoil her own chances, it might not be such a bad thing for somebody else. ‘Yes, I mean to. I like chaffing Phil, and he likes it too.’ Bertha, on her part, was thinking that she might do worse than have a secret with her handsome cousin, for he could not but perceive the awkwardness of Sir Herbert Moncrieff’s suggestion; and if—— But not even to herself did the girl complete that train of thought. The next time she had her cousin to herself, she put her threat into execution. ‘Phil,’ she began, looking up at him archly, ‘don’t you think that was a very odd mistake of Sir Herbert Moncrieff’s the other day?’ ‘What mistake? Taking me for Torwood? Well, yes—rather, perhaps. It all comes of that lazy beggar Tor giving me all the work to do, whilst everything went down in his name, as he had the money, you know.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ said Bertha, her half-formed theory fading a little before his quiet nonchalance. ‘You used always to act for him, did you?’ ‘Well, yes, mostly. He’s a lazy beggar, as I said before, and was ready to let anybody and everybody cheat him. So I generally made the bargains, and wrote the orders, and signed everything “Torwood;” so naturally I got taken for him, and then Tor would say: “Oh, don’t bother to undeceive them, or they’ll all come pestering me. Let me be Phil Debenham, insignificant and dependent.” Of course the old chap had to have his own way.’ Tor’s voice expressed a quiet amusement and an obvious mimicry which was irresistible. Bertha laughed, and felt her suspicions vanishing. ‘I wonder, then, what made Sir Herbert think Maud so very like Mr. Torwood—the one he had always thought Phil Debenham, you know.’ ‘Did he think that?’ asked Tor lazily. ‘Yes. Are they alike really?’ ‘Tor and Maud alike,’ said Tor slowly and reflectively. ‘I don’t know that it ever struck me; but some people have a faculty for seeing likenesses; I don’t think I possess it. Let me see: well, perhaps there is a sort of similarity in style, hair and eyes the same colour, and he has rather that oval-shaped face of hers; but I think the likeness begins and ends there. I think Maud is uncommonly good-looking, and Tor never set up for being a beauty. Well, when he comes over here on a visit, we will put them together and see if there is a visible likeness. I rather imagine it exists only in Sir Herbert Moncrieff’s imagination.’