Maud’s friendliness to Lewis had not passed unnoticed. Miss Marjory’s sharp eyes had at once detected it, and Mrs. Lorraine had felt a passing uneasiness, as she observed the gracious manner her niece had adopted towards the cousin, whose fate was trembling in the balance. Tor, if he observed anything, did not trouble his head much about it. Such perfect sympathy existed between him and Maud that he was certain she never meant to marry Lewis Belassis. Whilst the riding-party was out, he and Miss Marjory paid a visit to Michael Meredith. She was anxious to learn from the blind man all she could about the mysterious foreigner, and to see for herself what manner of man this egotist and dreamer was. Tor had related the story of the sick man’s fancy, and the odd relations that now existed between him and Roma; and Miss Marjory had scolded him for being so foolish and good-natured, always running into awkward situations for the sake of other people’s hearts or purses, or what not! ‘As if the matter were not complicated enough without your going and getting into an entanglement like this! You’re just like your father—very big and strong to look at, but just as weak really—as weak as—as—well, as a _man_. I can’t say more. Men are all alike. You think you can get easily out of this scrape as soon as the real Phil Debenham turns up, do you? How do you know that? Just as likely as not the girl will have fallen in love with you by that time. (Now don’t run away with the idea that you’re very fascinating or magnificently handsome, because you’re not—far from it. But you’re just the big, brown, easy-going, cool-handed sort of creature that the girls of these days lose their heads about; and this Roma may go and do the same, and most likely will.) And then the crotchety old father may, as likely as not, declare that after all he prefers you to the true Phil; if he’s as mad as he seems, he isn’t a bit to be relied upon. He likes you, but he may not like your friend; and he may try to keep you to your word. And when father and daughter are both hanging round your neck, metaphorically and literally, and threatening you with broken hearts and grey hairs, and all the rest of it, then you will find what a nice mess you have made of your affairs, and will, I suppose, expect me to step in and get you clear of them.’ Tor, who had made one or two ineffectual attempts to speak during this tirade, gave up all hope of stemming the torrent, and ended by laughing heartily. ‘Yes, Miss Marjory, that is just what I shall expect. You have drawn my character, and I will abide by it. I consider it is my part to get into as many scrapes as I conveniently can, and yours to pull me out again. Is it agreed?’ ‘It is agreed that you are an impudent boy, as your father was before you. Stop! Look through those trees there. Who is that with our friend the spy? If that is this far-famed Roma, the daughter will give us less trouble than the father.’