"Excuse me," he said, "but you mistake me altogether. I know my son thoroughly, and though I have never had the privilege of meeting you before to-day, yet once seeing is quite sufficient to disabuse my mind of any prejudice I may have entertained towards you. In speaking of indiscretion I was thinking entirely of outside criticism." Jill smiled faintly, contemptuously, incredulously. She had him at a disadvantage, and the knowledge gave her a gratifying sense of superiority. "I am too insignificant a unit in this little world to excite criticism, captious or the reverse," she answered. "I thought, myself, at first that it wouldn't do, but have since been humbled into learning that my actions pass unheeded by the outside world. A great many actions of bigger people than myself pass unnoticed if they were only big-minded enough to realise it. Humanity does not spend its time solely in watching the doings of its neighbour; that is left for the little minds who have nothing more important to occupy themselves with. But you didn't come here to warn me of my indiscretion. Would you mind telling me what the `unpleasant errand' is?" "No," he answered bluntly coming to the point. "I was merely anxious not to be too abrupt. I want to induce my son to give up coming here, and I can't persuade him. Will you?" He did not look at her, but drawing a cheque-book from his pocket with unnecessary display placed it upon the table. Jill watched him comprehensively, and the blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she did so. "Why," she asked, and could have bitten out her tongue because the word choked in her throat, "why should he give up coming?" "This is absurd," exclaimed Mr St. John. "Let us give over fencing and understand one another. My son is infatuated--he generally is, by the way, it is a failing of his,"--Jill felt this to be untrue even while he said it, but she made no sign. "You, of course, are quite aware of his infatuation? But, Miss Erskine, he is a beggar; he has nothing in the world save what I allow him." "How degrading!" cried Jill. "I should have credited him with possessing more manhood than that. Everyone should be independent who can be." He smiled and tapped the cheque-book with his fingers. He fancied that she would be sensible. "It would not be wise to marry a pauper, would it?" he queried. "For a man who marries against his relative's wishes when he looks to them for every penny, would be a pauper, without doubt." "No," Jill answered with unnatural quietness, "it would not be wise. I don't think anyone would contradict that." "You would not yourself, for instance?" "Most certainly I should not." "Now we begin to understand one another," he resumed almost cheerfully. He had greatly feared a scene; but she was so absolutely unemotional that he felt relieved.