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 grandmother,” she said. “Why not tell me the truth?”

And, to his horror and astonishment, he told it.

“And that’s what I meant to do,” he ended. “It was a mad idea, and I see now that if I do it at all I must marry some one who is not—who is not like you. You have made me ashamed of myself.”

A spot of pink colour glowed in her faded cheek. The old lady put up her gloved hand and touched her cheek, as if it burned. She got up and walked to the window, and stood there, looking out.

“If you are going to do it,” she said in a voice that was hardly audible, “I have been used to live among beautiful surroundings—I should like to end my days among them. I do not come of a long-lived family. You would not have long to wait for your freedom and your second wife.”

Never in all his days had Michael known so sharp an agony of embarrassment.

“When must you be married,” the old lady went on calmly, “to ensure your fortunes and estates?”

“In about a month.”

“Well, Mr Wood, I make you a formal