Tristram of Blent. Anthony Hope

conversation, it must be admitted, sounds commonplace when verbally recorded. Yet he would be a despondent man who considered it altogether discouraging; Mina did not think Janie's glances discouraging either. But Bob Broadley, a literal man, found no warrant for fresh hope in any of the not very significant words which he repeated to himself as he rode home up the valley of the Blent. He suffered under modesty; it needed more than coquetry to convince him that he exercised any attraction over the rich and brilliant (brilliance also is a matter of comparison) Miss Iver, on whose favor Mr. Tristram waited and at whose side Major Duplay danced attendance.

      "You're a dreadful flirt, Janie," said Mina, as she kissed her friend.

      Janie was not a raw girl; she was a capable young woman of two-and-twenty.

      "Nonsense," she said rather crossly. "It's not flirting to take time to make up your mind."

      "It looks like it, though."

      "And I've no reason to suppose they've any one of them made up their minds."

      "I should think you could do that for them pretty soon. Besides, uncle has, anyhow."

      "I'm to be your aunt, am I?"

      "Oh, he's only an uncle by accident."

      "Yes, I think that's true. Shall we have a drive soon?"

      "To Mingham? Or to Blent Hall?"

      "Not Blent. I wait my lord's pleasure to see me."

      "Yes, that's just how I feel about him," cried Mina eagerly.

      "But all the same——"

      "No, I won't hear a word of good about him. I hate him!"

      Janie smiled in an indulgent but rather troubled way. Her problem was serious; she could not afford the Imp's pettish treatment of the world and the people in it. Janie had responsibilities—banks and buildings full of them—and a heart to please into the bargain. Singularly complicated questions are rather cruelly put before young women, who must solve them on peril of—— It would sound like exaggeration to say what.

      There was Mrs. Iver to be said good-by to—plump, peaceful, proper Mrs. Iver, whom nothing had great power to stir save an unkindness and an unconventionality; before either of these she bristled surprisingly.

      "I hope you've all enjoyed this lovely afternoon," she said to Mina.

      "Oh, yes, we have, Mrs. Iver—not quite equally perhaps, but still——"

      Mrs. Iver sighed and kissed her.

      "Men are always the difficulty, aren't they?" said the Imp.

      "Poor child, and you've lost yours!"

      "Yes, poor Adolf!" There was a touch of duty in Mina's sigh. She had been fond of Adolf, but his memory was not a constant presence. The world for the living was Madame Zabriska's view.

      "I'm so glad Janie's found a friend in you—and a wise one, I'm sure."

      Mina did her best to look the part thus charitably assigned to her; her glance at Janie was matronly, almost maternal.

      "Not that I know anything about it," Mrs. Iver pursued, following a train of thought obvious enough. "I hope she'll act for her happiness, that's all. There's the dear Major looking for you—don't keep him waiting, dear. How lucky he's your uncle—he can always be with you."

      "Until he settles and makes a home for himself," smiled Mina irrepressibly; the rejuvenescence—nay, the unbroken youth—of her relative appeared to her quaintly humorous, and it was her fancy to refer to him as she might to a younger brother.

      There was Mr. Iver to be said good-by to.

      "Come again soon—you're always welcome; you wake us up, Madame Zabriska."

      "You promised to say Mina!"

      "So I did, but my tongue's out of practice with young ladies' Christian names. Why, I call my wife 'Mother'—only Janie says I mustn't. Yes, come and cheer us up. I shall make the uncle a crack player before long. Mustn't let him get lazy and spend half the day over five o'clock tea, though."

      This was hardly a hint, but it was an indication of the trend of Mr. Iver's thoughts. So it was a dangerous ball, and that clever little cricketer, the Imp, kept her bat away from it. She laughed; that committed her to nothing—and left Iver to bowl again.

      "It's quite a change to find Harry Tristram at a tea-party, though! Making himself pleasant too!"

      "Not to me," observed Mina decisively.

      "You chaffed him, I expect. He stands a bit on his dignity. Ah well, he's young, you see."

      "No, he chaffed me. Oh, I think I—I left off even, you know."

      "They get a bit spoilt." He seemed to be referring to the aristocracy. "But there's plenty of stuff in him, or I'm much mistaken. He's a born fighter, I think."

      "I wonder!" said Mina, her eyes twinkling again.

      Finally there was the Major to be walked home with—not a youthful triumphant Major, but a rather careworn, undisguisedly irritated one. If Mina wanted somebody to agree with her present mood about Harry Tristram, her longing was abundantly gratified. The Major roundly termed him an overbearing young cub, and professed a desire—almost an intention—to teach him better manners. This coincidence of views was a sore temptation to the Imp; to resist it altogether would seem superhuman.

      "I should like to cut his comb for him," growled Duplay.

      Whatever the metaphor adopted, Mina was in essential agreement. She launched on an account of how Harry had treated her: they fanned one another's fires, and the flames burnt merrily.

      Mina's stock of discretion was threatened with complete consumption. From open denunciations she turned to mysterious hintings.

      "I could bring him to reason if I liked," she said.

      "What, make him fall in love with you?" cried Duplay, with a surprise not very complimentary.

      "Oh no," she laughed; "better than that—by a great deal."

      He eyed her closely: probably this was only another of her whimsical tricks, with which he was very familiar; if he showed too much interest she would laugh at him for being taken in. But she had hinted before to-day's annoyances; she was hinting again. He had yawned at her hints till he became Harry Tristram's rival; he was ready to be eager now, if only he could be sure that they pointed to anything more than folly or delusion.

      "Oh, my dear child," he exclaimed, "you mustn't talk nonsense. We mayn't like him, but what in the world could you do to him?"

      "I don't want to hurt him, but I should like to make him sing small."

      They had just reached the foot of the hill. Duplay waved his arm across the river toward the hall. Blent looked strong and stately.

      "That's a big task, my dear," he said, recovering some of his good-humor at the sight of Mina's waspish little face. "I fancy it'll need a bigger man than you to make Tristram of Blent sing small." He laughed at her indulgently. "Or than me either, I'm afraid," he added, with a ruefulness that was not ill-tempered. "We must fight him in fair fight, that's all."

      "He doesn't fight fair," she cried angrily. The next instant she broke into her most malicious smile. "Tristram of Blent!" she repeated. "Oh well——"

      "Mina, dear, do you know you rather bore me? If you mean anything at all——"

      "I may mean what I like without telling you, I suppose?"

      "Certainly—but don't ask me to listen."

      "You think it's all nonsense?"

      "I do, my dear," confessed the Major.

      How far he spoke sincerely he himself could hardly tell. Perhaps he had an alternative in his mind: if she meant nothing, she would hold