Frank Pratt was quite right, the Rea family were in town; and thanks to Aunt Matilda, who had sent to Captain Vanleigh a notification of all that had taken place, that gentleman and his companion had resumed their visits; and had, in the course of a few days, become quite at home.

Lady Rea had felt disposed to rebel at first, but Vanleigh completely disarmed the little lady by his frank behaviour.

“You see, Lady Rea,” he said to her one day, in private, “I cannot help feeling that you look upon me rather as an intruder.”

“Really, Captain Van ­”

“Pray hear me out, dear Lady Rea,” he said, in protestation.  “You prefer poor Trevor as your son-in-law ­I must call him Trevor still.”

“He was as good and gentlemanly a ­”

“He was, Lady Rea ­he was indeed,” said Vanleigh, warmly, “and no one lamented his fall more than I did.”

“It was very, very sad,” said Lady Rea.

“And you must own, dear Lady Rea that as soon as I heard of the attachment between Trevor ­I must still call him Trevor, you see ­and your daughter, I immediately withdrew all pretensions.”

“Yes, you did do that,” said Lady Rea.

“Exactly,” said Vanleigh.  “Well, then, now the coast is once more clear, and the engagement at an end ­”

“But it isn’t,” said Lady Rea.

“Excuse me, my dear Lady Rea ­I have Sir Hampton’s assurance that it is so.  He tells me that Trevor ­poor old Trevor ­resigned his pretensions in the most gentlemanly way.”

“Yes, he did,” said Lady Rea; “and it was very foolish of him, too.”

“Doubtless,” said Vanleigh, with a smile; “but still, under the circumstances, how could he have done otherwise?  Ah, Lady Rea, it was a very sad blow to his friends.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so, Captain Vanleigh,” said Lady Rea.

“Don’t say that,” replied Vanleigh.  “But now, Lady Rea, let me try and set myself in a better position with you.  Of course you must know that I love Miss Rea?”

“Well, yes ­I suppose so,” said the little lady.

“Then let us be friends,” said Vanleigh.  “I am coming merely as a visitor ­a friend of the family; and what I have to ask of you is this, that I may be treated with consideration.”

“Oh, of course, Captain Vanleigh.”

“If in the future Miss Rea can bring herself to look upon my pretensions with favour, I shall be the happiest man alive.  If she cannot ­well, I will be patient, and blame no one.”

“He was very nice, my dear,” said Lady Rea to her daughter.  “No one could have been more so; but I told him I didn’t think there was any hope.”

“Of course there isn’t, ma, dear,” said Fin; “and it’s very indecent of him to come as he does, and so soon after Richard’s misfortune; but I know how it all was ­Aunt Matty did it.”

“Aunt Matty did it, my dear?”

“Yes, ma.  Wrote to Captain Vanleigh at his club, and told him all about how pa said poor Richard was not to be mentioned in the house, and how we were all brought up to town for change.”

“I don’t think Aunt Matty would do anything so foolish, my dear,” said mamma.

“Then how came they to call as soon as we had been up two days?” said Fin.  “Aunt Matty would do anything she thought was for our welfare, even if it was to poison us.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear!”

“Well, I can’t help it, ma, dear; she is so tiresome.  Aunt Matty is so good; I’m glad I’m not, for it does make you so miserable and uncharitable.  Oh, ma, darling, what a dreadfully wicked little woman you must be!”

“Oh, my dear!”

“I’m sure Aunt Matty thinks you are.  I often see her looking painfully righteous at you when you are reading the newspaper or a story, while she is studying `Falling Leaves from the Tree of Life,’ or `The Daily Dredge.’”

“My dear Fin, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea.  “Aunt Matty means all for the best.”

“Yes, ma, dear,” said Fin, with a sigh, “that’s it.  If she only meant things for the second best, I wouldn’t care, for then one might perhaps be comfortable.”

“But, my dear, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea; “and I think you are misjudging Aunt Matty about her sending to Captain Vanleigh.”

“Oh no, ma, dear,” cried Fin.  “It’s quite right.  That dreadful noodle, Sir Felix, let it all out to me just now in the dining-room, while the Captain was upstairs with you.”

“Has he been speaking to you, then?” said Lady Rea, eagerly.

“Yes, ma,” said Fin, coolly; but there was a pretty rosy flush in her little cheek.

“What did he say, dear?”

“He-haw, he-haw, he-haw-w-w-w!” said Fin, seriously.

“Fin!”

“Well, it sounded like it, ma,” said Fin, “for I never did meet such a donkey.”

“But, my dear Fin ­”

“Well, I know, ma,” exclaimed Fin, “it’s rude of me; but I’m naturally rude.  I’ve got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me, and it makes me wicked.”

“Tut, tut, tut!  Fin, my dear,” said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her, till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face averted.  “Now, come, tell me all about it.  I don’t like you to have secrets from me.”

“Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes’ interview.”

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”

“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling ­“they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root.  Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked! ­and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men.  Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff ­said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk ­all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”

“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.

“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”

“But, Fin, my dear ­”

“Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him.  Pf!  I can smell him now.”

Lady Rea sighed.

“And now, I suppose,” said Fin, “we are to be pestered ­poor Tiny and your humble servant; they’ll follow us to church, get sittings where they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege.  I wish them joy of it!”

Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of a minute, and stand nodding her head.

“Well, my dear, what is it?” said Lady Rea.

“You’ll have to put your foot down, mamma,” said Fin, sharply.

Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot, looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.

“A nice state of affairs!” said Fin.

“There’s Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because it’s for our good.  Now, mark my words, mamma ­there’ll be a regular plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if you don’t stop it I shall.”

Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to her elder daughter’s room.