He eyed her closely: probably this was only another of her whimsical tricks, with which he was very familiar; if he showed too much interest she would laugh at him for being taken in. But she had hinted before to-day's annoyances; she was hinting again. He had yawned at her hints till he became Harry Tristram's rival; he was ready to be eager now, if only he could be sure that they pointed to anything more than folly or delusion. "Oh, my dear child," he exclaimed, "you mustn't talk nonsense. We mayn't like him, but what in the world could you do to him?" "I don't want to hurt him, but I should like to make him sing small." They had just reached the foot of the hill. Duplay waved his arm across the river toward the hall. Blent looked strong and stately. "That's a big task, my dear," he said, recovering some of his good-humor at the sight of Mina's waspish little face. "I fancy it'll need a bigger man than you to make Tristram of Blent sing small." He laughed at her indulgently. "Or than me either, I'm afraid," he added, with a ruefulness that was not ill-tempered. "We must fight him in fair fight, that's all." "He doesn't fight fair," she cried angrily. The next instant she broke into her most malicious smile. "Tristram of Blent!" she repeated. "Oh well----" "Mina, dear, do you know you rather bore me? If you mean anything at all----" "I may mean what I like without telling you, I suppose?" "Certainly--but don't ask me to listen." "You think it's all nonsense?" "I do, my dear," confessed the Major. How far he spoke sincerely he himself could hardly tell. Perhaps he had an alternative in his mind: if she meant nothing, she would hold her peace and cease to weary him; if she meant anything real, his challenge would bring it out. But for the moment she had fallen into thought. "No, he doesn't fight fair," she repeated, as though to herself. She glanced at her uncle in a hesitating, undecided way. "And he's abominably rude," she went on, with a sudden return of pettishness. The Major's shrug expressed an utter exhaustion of patience, a scornful irritation, almost a contempt for her. She could not endure it; she must justify herself, revenge herself at a blow on Harry for his rudeness and on her uncle for his scepticism. The triumph would be sweet; she could not for the moment think of any seriousness in what she did. She could not keep her victory to herself; somebody else now must look on at Harry's humiliation, at least must see that she had power to bring it about. With the height of malicious exultation she looked up at Duplay and said: "Suppose he wasn't Tristram of Blent at all?" Duplay stopped short where he stood--on the slope of the hill above Blent itself. "What? Is this more nonsense?" "No, it isn't nonsense." He looked at her steadily, almost severely. Under his regard her smile disappeared; she grew uncomfortable. "Then I must know more about it. Come, Mina, this is no trifle, you know."