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strong as she looked. Her tone seemed to convey a sense of personal injury.

Alison’s extremely nice but simple dinner seemed very long to Tony that night, though there was plenty to say, and it was good to see Professor Straine’s keen, kind face again. As they went into the drawing-room Tony muttered to Alison: “Ask the Professor to keep the old girl busy. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

A flash of laughter passed over Alison’s face, but she was grave again in an instant. “That’s easy!” she said. “Presently you and I shall go up to see Small Alison put to bed, and we’ll stay for a while after. I know Miss Sidmouth doesn’t find that interesting.”

Tony did, in spite of his impatience, but they did not linger very long with Small Alison that night. Then in Alison’s little boudoir that had meant Heaven to him six years ago he plunged straight into affairs.

“It is a confession this time—Oh, Alison, I’m any kind of fool you like! You know I told the girl—my cousin―—just for a joke, to see her face, and, God forgive me, she bolted and wouldn’t touch a penny of the money. And you’ve got her here!”

“What?”

“Yes, it’s Pamela Trent—or Learmonth, I suppose, she is, after all. Now what am I going to do?”

“Oh, Tony! You’re a very naughty boy. Why ever did you———?”

Tony threw out a despairing hand, one of the gestures he had which “didn’t match,” as Alison had once said.

“Mad—I was just mad. But it’s no use talking about that. In the name of wisdom, advise me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Well, how am I to get her to go back?”

“Well, Tony, I don’t see how she can.”

“Oh, hang it all, if things had run in the ordinary way