“No,” said Ralph, “what book was it?” “Oh, only about Roslin, but it doesn’t matter what she reads, she makes everything beautiful--it’s the way she says the words. Mother used to read to me in Ceylon, but I never cared for it--it sounded so droney.” “Do you come from Ceylon?” “Yes, I came last year,” said the small invalid. “I live now with Aunt Christine, she’s mother’s sister, and I like her next best to mother in all the world. But Sir Roderick’s a beast. You mustn’t say I said so, but I hate him because he always says horrid, cutting things to Auntie. He’s to meet us here, when Auntie’s engagement is over, and we are to go to the Highlands to stay at a big country house belonging to his cousin.” It was impossible to check the confidences of this small child, who, with his light brown hair, eager blue eyes and sunburnt face, was by no means the typical invalid of romance, but just a restless, high-spirited boy, brimming over with life and merriment. Perhaps it was as well that at that moment his aunt came into the room. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Denmead,” she said, greeting him in her charming way. “I was always a sadly unpunctual mortal, but Charlie has no doubt been entertaining you. Is the carriage at the door? Then we will ring for one of the waiters, Charlie, to take you down.” “He carries so badly,” said the small invalid, querulously. “I wish Dugald were here.” “Well, he will come with Sir Roderick on Saturday,” said the aunt. “What does the waiter do?” “I don’t know, but he hurts,” said Charlie, wriggling in his big chair. “Will you let me carry you?” said Ralph. “Yes,” said the child, with the air of a monarch bestowing a favour. “Your hands are so nice and long, not podgy little things like the waiter’s.” The journey to the Stanhope having been safely accomplished, and the child comfortably installed in the back seat, Christine gathered up the reins, and with Ralph in the front seat beside her, drove off in the direction of Roslin. “There is nothing I enjoy so much as driving,” she said. “It is the one real pleasure of my life.” “Greater than such a triumph as you had last night,” said Ralph. She glanced at him with a sort of surprise. “Did you really think I cared for that?” she said. “How young you are--how worn and _blasée_ you make me feel. I cared nothing at all for that ovation--was thankful when the din ceased and I could go home and be quiet. When one is miserable, there is at any rate some comfort in being miserable alone--you can throw aside your smiling mask, and so get something approaching to ease. It is off now, you see, and I am treating you as if you were a trustworthy, old friend, but then you are trustworthy, I could tell that the moment I saw you. Now tell me candidly, did not Mrs. Macneillie tell you she detested me?” “No, but I heard something of your first acquaintance with them long ago,” said Ralph; and then he coloured and hesitated, feeling that he had perhaps said too much.