You'd like to meet him, wouldn't you, my dear? He would interest you."

    "No," she said, so quickly that he looked at her. "I'm really not interested," she went on hurriedly, "and besides, I saw him in the post office yesterday morning and didn't like the look of him."

    Mr Nelson yawned and looked at his watch.

    "Well, I'll get along. I promised Pearson I'd partner him in a foursome this afternoon. You're sure you won't come up to tea?"

    She did not ask him inconvenient questions about the unfinished Pygmalion. Two years ago, when she first came back from school, she would have been surprised that he had so quickly forgotten his noble intentions, and would have suggested that he spent the afternoon in his studio, and he would have replied that he would get up early the next morning and make a good start. If she had repeated the suggestion now, she would have had the same answer. She was resigned now, resigned to everything. Things must work out as they might. She had made her effort and had failed. Recalling the journey to town and the high hopes she had set upon the interview which had proved impossible, she knew that her wild flutter to escape had been futile from the conception of the idea. The worst must happen. It was Kismet.

    When she had come down that morning she had found a letter from Arthur Wilmot, and, after making sure that he was the writer, she had torn it up unread and thrown it into the wastepaper basket. He was the least disturbing element of all.

    As to the detective, he also was fate. He must do whatever he wished, whatever it was his duty to do. She was resigned to the worst, and he was included in her category of misfortunes. Today he headed the list.

    She spent the afternoon interviewing the raw materials of service. They were crude country girls, who gaped at her, and giggled at the labour-saving devices to which she introduced them. It was a waste of time to look for trained servants, for they knew the house, and they had heard of Kenneth Nelson in his cups.

    A secret and dwindling reserve of money which she kept in her desk enabled her to discharge her liabilities to the servants whom Nelson, in his lordly way, had dismissed. She had just finished the heart-breaking task of teaching the new cook the delicate art of tea-making ("I likes it hot and strong myself, miss," said that lady) when Mr Merrivan arrived. She saw him through the window, and opened the door to him herself.

    He was an unwelcome visitor, though she did not dislike him. She stilled the nutter of apprehension which she felt by committing him to the category of her inevitabilities, and gained a certain peace of mind thereby.

    "A delicate errand. Miss—er—Nelson," he said, shaking his head, and thereby implying his unfitness for the mission. "A very delicate errand. I hardly know where to begin."

    She waited, fearing that he would begin by reminding her of a certain obligation she had once undertaken and happily discharged. To her relief, the subject which he had come to expound was the brutality of his nephew.

    "I don't know what he said to you. I can only guess. May I sit down?"

    "I'm so sorry."

    She pushed forward a chair, and Mr Merrivan seated himself slowly and gave her elaborate thanks.

    "He has insulted you beyond forgiveness," he was starting, but she stopped him.

    "I do hope you're not going to talk about that, Mr Merrivan. Arthur is very young, and he doesn't know a very great deal about women."

    "Doesn't he?" said Mr Merrivan significantly. "I am sorry to say I disagree with you. He knows enough about ladies to understand what is his duty."

    "Did he tell you?" she asked, wondering how this big man came to know.

    It occurred to her that Arthur must have inherited his talkativeness from Mr Merrivan's branch of the family.

    "He certainly told me," nodded the other, "and he asked me to use my influence with you—ahem!" he coughed.