“At ‘home’?” questioned the marquess, with raised eyebrows.

“I mean in London,” she explained, speaking rather low. “Mother always said I must not keep it down after I was eighteen, but Hugh didn’t want it to go up.”

“Who is Hugh?” St Quentin’s tone was rather sharp; Sydney wondered if he were in pain.

“Hugh is the eldest of us, but not a bit stuck-up or elder-brotherish because of that. He is such a dear boy and very clever too. Why, he has an appointment at the Blue-Friars’ Hospital that most men don’t get till they’re ever so old, over thirty! And Hugh is so nice too, at home; he and I are special friends——”

Sydney could not understand what made her cousin’s voice sound so unpleasant as he interrupted her with another question:

“How old is this paragon?”

“Twenty-four last birthday, Cousin St. Quentin.” She no longer felt inclined to enlarge upon Hugh’s merits.

“Does he write to you?”

“Of course he does.”

“Don’t answer his letters, if you please.[72] I have no doubt your Chichesters are excellent people, but a correspondence between you and this young paragon is most unsuitable.”

[72]

The colour flamed into Sydney’s face. “I don’t know what you mean, Cousin St. Quentin,” she cried hotly, “and Hugh will think me so—so horrid if I never answer his letters!”

The cynical smile deepened round his mouth. “The sooner you understand that playing at brother and sister is out of the question now the better,” he said quietly.

Sydney set her teeth to keep the tears back and stared hard into the fire. She would not cry before St. Quentin, but his tone, even more than his words, made her desperately hot and angry. There was silence in the room for full five minutes: then the footman came in with a note for Lord St. Quentin.

He opened it, and read it half aloud with a sneer.

“What’s this ... ‘Miss Lisle ... help in the Sunday School ... small class ...’ (confound the fellow’s insolence!) ‘subject of course to my approval ...’ (He won’t get 

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