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Indeed, he seemed more than willing to give attention to anything Miss Derwent choose to say: something of this inclination had appeared even at their first meeting, and to-day it was more marked. He showed reluctance when the hour obliged him to remount his horse. Mrs. Borisoff's hope that she might see him again before he left this part of the country received a prompt and cheerful reply.

I shall have one or two others, old chums, not respectable people. Name your own day." When the evening came, Piers entered Mrs. Borisoff's drawing-room with trepidation. He glanced at the guest who had already arrived a lady unknown to him. When again the door opened, he looked, trembling.

It did not flatter her self-esteem to think of herself as excluded from the number of those who are capable of love; even in Helen Borisoff's view, the elect, the fortunate. Of love, she had thought more in this last week or two than in all her years gone by. Assuredly, she knew it not, this glory of the poets.

There came to lunch Mrs. Borisoff's cousin, a grouse-guest at a house some miles away. He arrived on horseback, and his approach was watched with interest by two pairs of eyes from the Castle windows. Mr. March looked well in the saddle, for he was a strong, comely man of about thirty, who lived mostly under the open sky.

"So you had rather I didn't give up the castle?" "I should be horribly disappointed." "Yes no doubt you would. Why did you come to see me to-day? No, no, no! The real reason. "I wanted to talk about Miss Derwent," Piers answered, bracing himself to frankness. Mrs. Borisoff's lips contracted, in something which was not quite a smile, but which became a smile before she spoke.