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nothing whatever to laugh at,' said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished.

'I did not ask you to laugh,' I observed mildly. 'I mentioned it merely as a typical case.'

'It's not typical,' she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added—

'Poor boy! I'm not surprised!'

'I'm not surprised either,' I remarked. 'It is, however, extremely deplorable.'

'It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?'

'A book,' I observed, 'might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would?'

By the way, I may as well state what he—that is, my young cousin George—had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.

Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. 94