“Uncle Nic, won't you give me news of him?” Mr. Treffry looked at her, and Christian could not bear that look. “He's safe into Italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago; I squared 'em pretty easily. Now, look here, Chris!” Christian came close; he took her hand. “I'd like to see you pull yourself together. 'Tisn't so much the position; 'tisn't so much the money; because after all there's always mine—” Christian shook her head. “But,” he went on with shaky emphasis, “there's the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing; and there's this anarch—this political affair; and there's the sort of life, an' that's a serious thing; but—what I'm coming to is this, Chris—there's the man!” Christian drew away her hand. Mr. Treffry went on: “Ah! yes. I'm an old chap and fond of you, but I must speak out what I think. He's got pluck, he's strong, he's in earnest; but he's got a damned hot temper, he's an egotist, and—he's not the man for you. If you marry him, as sure as I lie here, you'll be sorry for it. You're not your father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft as butter. If you take this chap, it'll be like mixing earth and ironstone, and they don't blend!” He dropped his head back on the pillows, and stretching out his hand, repeated wistfully: “Take my word for it, my dear, he's not the man for you.” Christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly: “I can't take any one's word for that.” “Ah!” muttered Mr. Treffry, “you're obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength. “You'll give up everything to him, you'll lick his shoes; and you'll never play anything but second fiddle in his life. He'll always be first with himself, he and his work, or whatever he calls painting pictures; and some day you'll find that out. You won't like it, and I don't like it for you, Chris, and that's flat.” He wiped his brow where the perspiration stood in beads. Christian said: “You don't understand; you don't believe in him; you don't see! If I do come after his work—if I do give him everything, and he can't give all back—I don't care! He'll give what he can; I don't want any more. If you're afraid of the life for me, uncle, if you think it'll be too hard—” Mr. Treffry bowed his head. “I do, Chris.” “Well, then, I hate to be wrapped in cotton wool; I want to breathe. If I come to grief, it's my own affair; nobody need mind.” Mr. Treffry's fingers sought his beard. “Ah! yes. Just so!” Christian sank on her knees. “Oh! Uncle! I'm a selfish beast!” Mr. Treffry laid his hand against her cheek. “I think I could do with a nap,” he said. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she stole out of the room. XX By a stroke of Fate Mr. Treffry's return to Villa Rubein befell at the psychological moment when Herr Paul, in a suit of rather too bright blue, was starting for Vienna.