“I heard you had come back again,” said Mrs. Dunbar.

She closed the door as gently as she had opened it. The action pathetically expressed the quiet sorrow of a much-wronged woman’s heart.

“Yes,” said Heriot gallantly, “I’m back again to Scotland, home and beauty. Ha, ha! Now that was quite pretty, wasn’t it?”

But her black eyes declined to sparkle, as she glided silently to a chair. Out of the corner of his own eye her lover looked at her critically.

“I’m delighted to see you again, Madge,” he went on; but his words had a hollow ring, and his eye continued to express more doubt than passion.

“Have you no apology to offer me?” she inquired, with the same ominous calm.

“For what, my dear lady?”

She started a little and glanced at him apprehensively. “My dear lady” hardly indicated love’s divinest frenzy.

“For treating me shamefully!”

“This is strong language,” he smiled indulgently. “Tell me now, I say, just tell me what I’ve done.”

Thus invited, the lady described his conduct in leaving her alone and unprotected in a London hotel, to the neglect of his affectionate assurances and the shame and confusion of herself, in language which did no more than justice to the theme.

“But I left Jean to look after you,” he protested.

“When I want your daughter to look after me I shall ask you for her assistance,” she replied tartly. “You broke your word to me, and you can’t deny it.”

“I do deny it,” he replied, with dignity. “I told you I should travel north-”

“Oh!” she interrupted, with scathing contempt, “you were very straightforward and gentlemanly, I know!”

He looked at her ever more critically. A recollection of Ellen and the pine-wood returned forcibly.

“Put it as you will,” he replied philosophically, and turned towards the fire.

She watched him jealously.

“But why did you run away?” she persisted. “Where have you been since? Heriot, I insist upon knowing that-I insist!”

She rose and came towards him. He took her hand and pressed it gently.

“I shall tell you all,” he said, as he led her back to her chair and drew another towards it. When they were about three feet apart he sat down himself and bent confidentially towards her. Yet he did not attempt to bridge entirely the intervening space.

“I have been up to Perthshire,” he began, “assisting dear Ellen Berstoun to break off her engagement with Andrew.”

Mrs. Dunbar sat up with a much more alert expression.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, with decision.

“I discovered that Frank and she loved one another. I am very glad to say he is now engaged to her instead.”

She smiled at last.

“Do tell me what Andrew said!”

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid he is somewhat unreasonably annoyed.”

She smiled more brightly still.

“How very good for him! Really, Heriot, you have done a very sensible thing indeed.”

Heriot smiled back.

“It seemed to me,” said he, “that there was really too much disparity in years. The young should marry the young, Madge.”

“I agree with you entirely.”

It was his smile that now seemed to indicate an increasing satisfaction.

“You agree also that under those circumstances it is no longer the duty of two people to marry, even if they have unfortunately become engaged?”

“I think it would only lead to wretchedness if they did. Honestly, I don’t feel in the least sorry for Andrew. In fact, I thoroughly agree that people ought to have their engagements broken off for them if they haven’t the sense to see they are unsuitable for themselves.”

Heriot received this assurance with evident pleasure. His manner grew more confidential still.

“Madge,” he said, “I think it is time I made you a very serious confession.”

Her smile departed.

“You may have noticed,” he continued, “a certain bloom, so to speak, upon me, a sort of freshness, and so on. Madge, it is the bloom of youth.”

She grew uneasy.

“Oh, really?”

“It is a literal, physical fact. I am rapidly approaching thirty.”

She moved into the farthest corner of her chair, but made no other comment.

“You will thus see that it is merely a question of time before there will be an even greater disparity of years between you and me than between Ellen and Andrew.”

Her expression changed entirely.

“Heriot!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Yes, Madge, I grieve deeply to resign the hopes of happiness I had formed on a life spent in your society, but alas! I must. Your adult charms cannot be thrown away upon an unappreciative youth; it would be a tragedy.”

“You are many years older than I!”

“I was a short time ago, but to-day we are roughly speaking, twins-though with this difference, that as I am looking forward to a strenuous youth, and you to a handsome old age, naturally I feel a chicken compared with you. But then think of the next year or two, when I shall perhaps be playing football, and you will find it no longer possible to keep your gray hairs so artistically brushed beneath your black tresses: think of that, Madge!”

“Are you out of your mind?” she gasped.

“On the contrary, I have never been clearer-headed in my life.”

“Then,” she exclaimed wrathfully, “you are merely inventing a ridiculous fable to excuse your shuffling out of your engagement!”

“My dear lady,” he replied pacifically, “shall I jump over this chair to convince you?”

“Nothing would convince me.”

“Ah,” he said, with a friendly smile, “I see that you want to have me whether I’m a suitable mate or not, whether my feelings have changed-”

“I certainly do not!” she interrupted.

“Then in that case shall we call it off?”

He rose and picked up an evening paper.

She tried the resource of tears. The spectacle of a handsome woman weeping had brought him temporarily to his senses once before. But this time, though his manner was as kind as any widow could desire, his words brought the unfortunate lady no more consolation than his conduct.

“My dear Madge, just look at the thing sensibly. Surely you are old enough by this time to take a practical view of what after all is a very simple situation. You laid down the law yourself not five minutes ago, and laid it down very justly. If two people are unsuitably mated, the engagement should be broken off. Very well; just try to realize for a moment what it means to marry a man who is getting fuller and fuller of beans all the time-at your age, mark you. The fact is, we are just like two trains rushing in opposite directions. For a moment we may be side by side, and then-whit!-we have passed each other and are getting a couple of miles farther apart every minute.”

Even this graphic allegory failed to dry her tears.

“You are deserting me-you are breaking my heart!” she wailed.

“Hush, hush,” he answered soothingly; “on the contrary, I am sparing you-sparing you no end of anxiety.”

She looked at him like a tragedy queen.

“Have you no thought of how my reputation will suffer, Heriot?”

“How can it suffer? Nobody knows we’ve been engaged.”

“Do you suppose they haven’t guessed?”

“Not from anything I’ve said or done, I can assure you.”

She sprang up indignantly.

“Have you no sense of honor?”

“Look here,” he answered, with his most ingratiating manner, “I’ll be a son to you, Madge-an affectionate, dutiful-”

“You coward!” she cried.

Heriot found himself alone in his library with his engagement satisfactorily ended.