“I must not forbid her to hold any communication with him,” he reflected, “or let her feel that I am a tyrant and they a couple of martyrs. After all, she is so young and simple and innocent; no mischief will come of it.” “Has Ralph found work?” he inquired, not unkindly. “Yes,” she said, “at Washington’s theatre; and perhaps he is going on a Scotch tour.” “Good!” said Sir Matthew, approvingly. “After all, he has talent, and will make himself a name in time. His best chance would be to marry some experienced actress older than himself. That has answered very well in one or two cases. His birth and education would go for something, and if he plays his cards well the stage may make his fortune. By-the-by, Bruce Wylie is to dine with us to-night. You like him, do you not?” “Oh, yes,” said Evereld, “I like him very much.” And Sir Matthew, satisfied with the warmth of her tone, dismissed her with a paternal kiss, and an injunction to put on her prettiest gown in honour of the festival. Bruce Wylie was certainly the most attractive and amusing of the men who visited the Mactavishes. He had the easy, comfortable air of an old friend, and he came and went at all hours, yet never seemed to be present when he was not wanted. His fair hair and short, fair beard contrasted rather curiously with his dark, keen eyes. He had a brisk, kindly, pleasant manner, and a particularly winning voice. There was about him, too, a saving sense of humour, and the rather heavy atmosphere of Sir Matthew’s household always seemed less oppressive when he was present. He was a first-rate _raconteur_, and Evereld was never tired of listening to his stories. It was all in vain that she tried to see him with Ralph’s eyes. She decided in her own mind that his hard experience of the world had made Ralph somewhat cynical and distrustful. He had convinced her with regard to Sir Matthew, but to belief in Bruce Wylie she still clung with all the loyalty of her fresh, innocent youth. And yet the ladies had only left the dining-room a few moments when Bruce Wylie revealed a very different side of himself. “Ewart’s little girl is looking prettier than usual tonight,” he remarked, as he picked out the preserved apricots from a small dish in front of him, leaving only bitter oranges and citrons for those who might come after. “Yes,” said Sir Matthew, “Southbourne has done wonders for her. She had better have another six months there.” “Was she not eighteen in the autumn? She will want to come out next season.” “I don’t think it,” said Sir Matthew. “She is happy enough there, and we shall do well to keep her from the heiress-hunters till she is safely betrothed to you.” “Poor little soul!” said Bruce Wylie, reflectively. “There would be no danger in letting her see a little of the world first.”