"Not that I know anything about it," Mrs Iver pursued, following a train of thought obvious enough. "I hope she'll act for her happiness, that's all. There's the dear Major looking for you--don't keep him waiting, dear. How lucky he's your uncle--he can always be with you." "Until he settles and makes a home for himself," smiled Mina irrepressibly; the rejuvenescence--nay, the unbroken youth--of her relative appeared to her quaintly humorous, and it was her fancy to refer to him as she might to a younger brother. There was Mr Iver to be said good-by to. "Come again soon--you're always welcome; you wake us up, Madame Zabriska." "You promised to say Mina!" "So I did, but my tongue's out of practice with young ladies' Christian names. Why, I call my wife 'Mother'--only Janie says I mustn't. Yes, come and cheer us up. I shall make the uncle a crack player before long. Mustn't let him get lazy and spend half the day over five o'clock tea, though." This was hardly a hint, but it was an indication of the trend of Mr Iver's thoughts. So it was a dangerous ball, and that clever little cricketer, the Imp, kept her bat away from it. She laughed; that committed her to nothing--and left Iver to bowl again. "It's quite a change to find Harry Tristram at a tea-party, though! Making himself pleasant too!" "Not to me," observed Mina decisively. "You chaffed him, I expect. He stands a bit on his dignity. Ah well, he's young, you see." "No, he chaffed me. Oh, I think I--I left off even, you know." "They get a bit spoilt." He seemed to be referring to the aristocracy. "But there's plenty of stuff in him, or I'm much mistaken. He's a born fighter, I think." "I wonder!" said Mina, her eyes twinkling again. Finally there was the Major to be walked home with--not a youthful triumphant Major, but a rather careworn, undisguisedly irritated one. If Mina wanted somebody to agree with her present mood about Harry Tristram, her longing was abundantly gratified. The Major roundly termed him an overbearing young cub, and professed a desire--almost an intention--to teach him better manners. This coincidence of views was a sore temptation to the Imp; to resist it altogether would seem superhuman. "I should like to cut his comb for him," growled Duplay. Whatever the metaphor adopted, Mina was in essential agreement. She launched on an account of how Harry had treated her: they fanned one another's fires, and the flames burnt merrily. Mina's stock of discretion was threatened with complete consumption. From open denunciations she turned to mysterious hintings. "I could bring him to reason if I liked," she said. "What, make him fall in love with you?" cried Duplay, with a surprise not very complimentary. "Oh no," she laughed; "better than that--by a great deal."