hard on young chaps. I had forgotten, you know. I was an old fossil, or something. But I had a sister, deuced nice girl, pretty, and all that. You have to keep in with Johnnies like that, you know.

One thing I must know. Did this plain-spoken young man of the sword care for Carrie? This was soon evident from his conciliatory manner toward me. No one ever goes out of the way to consider me unless he wants something. Bassishaw was most attentive.

“By the way, Butterfield,” he said after a while, “are you engaged for Tuesday afternoon? Because if you’re not, do you know, my folks are giving a sort of garden-party, or something. There’ll be lots of people of your sort”—(my sort!)—“coming—clever, and all that, you know; I thought you might care to come. I’ll get them to ask you, if you like. And Miss Butterfield, too; Chatterton here is coming, and he’ll look after you, you know, Butterfield. What do you say?”

I turned to Carrie.

“I think we might go, Rol,” she said. “I like to meet clever people.”

I thought a moment.

“I don’t know, Bassishaw,” I replied—“that I care to meet people of—er—my sort, much. But if Carrie cares to go, I’ll look after her. It may be of use to her—in a literary way. Thank you.”

I wouldn’t have missed that garden-party for a good deal.

III A MILITARY MANŒUVRE

I had feigned to change my mind several times with regard to Bassishaw’s garden-party, but Carrie had suddenly developed accentuated ideas on the subject of engagement-keeping.

“We promised, you know, Rol,” she said, “and it would look so bad to run off. I don’t suppose it will be much fun,” she added candidly.

She was mistaken. It would be great fun.

On the way thither I entertained her blandly on the subject of unmarried life. I pointed out to her the advantages of a brother and sister living happily together, as, say, in our own case. I argued on the holy bonds of kinship, and congratulated her on having a brother who would devote the whole of his life to making her comfortable. How happy we were!

Carrie moved uneasily in her seat. She endeavoured to change the subject. Her conscience wrought within her—she was a guilty traitor, and deceiving the kindest of brothers. Had she been less in love, she 

 Prev. P 9/82 next