“You know it isn’t that. If you were my sister, I wouldn’t let you go out with him as you do.” “Then what a comfort for me, I’m not. And really, Baby dear! I’m much more adapted to be your mother.” “Rot!” He looked at her almost fiercely for a moment, scarcely aware of it himself, but with a sudden, swift, unaccountable resentment of the old joke. Hal, surprised again, backed away a little, eyeing him with a quizzical, roguish expression that made him want desperately to shake her. “Grandpapa,” she murmured, with a mock, apologetic air, “you really mustn’t get so worked up at—at your advanced years.” His face relaxed suddenly into laughter. “I don’t know whether I want to shake you or kiss you… you… you—” “Thanks, I’ll take the shake,” she interrupted promptly. “I certainly haven’t deserved such severe punishment as a kiss.” He took a step towards her, but she stood quite still and laughed in his face; and he could only turn away, laughing himself. Yet he was conscious that her attitude riled him. He was not in the least vain, but all the same it was absurd that Hal should persist in being the one woman who was not only utterly indifferent to his attractions, but seemed almost to scorn him for them. In some of the others it would not have mattered in the least—at any rate he thought so—but in Hal it was sheer nonsense. He liked her better than any one, except perhaps Lorraine, and he always enjoyed their sparring; but of course there was a limit, and she really might be seriously friendly sometimes; and anyhow he hated Sir Edwin Crathie. While he thought all this more or less vaguely, Hal watched him with undisguised amusement. “Don’t think so hard,” she said; “it spoils the line of your profile.” “Hang my profile!” he exclaimed, almost crossly. “Can’t you be serious for five minutes, you’re always so—so—” “Not at all. I’m perfectly serious. A frown doesn’t suit you one little bit. Imagine a scowl on one of Raphael’s cherubim.” “I don’t want to imagine anything so silly, and I’m not in the least like a cherub. It would be more sensible if you want to do some wise imagining, to think of Sir Edwin Crathie, and imagine yourself in the devil’s clutches.” “But I’ve not the smallest wish to be in Sir Edwin’s clutches, so why should I try to imagine it?… and you’re not at all polite, are you?” “I’m honest anyway; and I’ll warrant that’s more than he can rise to.” “But really, dear Alymer,” reverting again to the mocking tone, “at what period of your friendship with him have you had occasion to find him out?” “Your sarcasm won’t frighten me. A man knows more about this sort of thing than a girl. Of course he is all right in an ordinary way, but you are so often with him… Considering his political career, it is positively unpatriotic of you to be such close friends.”