FTER all, we are n't yet living in the millennium,

A Julian. What I'm afraid

of is that some day you'll be wanting to carry these notions of yours beyond the bounds of what's reasonable."

"You mean," said the other young man, with a flash in his dark eyes-"you mean you 're afraid I may just chance to be honest in my 'notions,' as you call them, of a scheme of social justice."

"I say!" Gavan Napier had made an extra good drive off the second tee. Yet after one glance to see where the ball fell, in case "that idiot caddie" of his should go blind again, Napier stood looking in the opposite direction, away down the home course of the Kirklamont golflinks.

As far off as you saw Napier you knew him, if you know the type at all, as a scion not only of the governing class, but in all likelihood of one of the governing families. Exactly the sort of man, you would say, to have Eton and Balliol in the past, a present as unpaid private secretary to a member of his Majesty's Government, and a future in which the pri

vate secretary himself would belong to officialdom and employ pleasant, more or less accomplished, and more rather than less idle young gentlemen to take down occasional notes, write an occasional letter, and see a boring constituent.

It was no boring constituent he was seeing now out of those cool blue eyes of his. Yet he followed with evident dissatisfaction the figure of a woman who had appeared an instant over the sand-dunes and who, as Napier turned to look at her instead of at his ball, changed her tack and sauntered inland.

"What do you suppose she's always hanging about for?" Napier asked his companion.

"As if you did n't know!"

"Well, if you do," retorted Napier, "I wish you 'd tell me."

"I shall do nothing of the kind. You are quite conceited enough." Julian shouldered his golf-clubs, (it was against his principles to employ a caddie) and trudged on at the side of his unencumbered friend. The eyes of both followed the lady disappearing among the dunes.

"I've seen her only two or three times," Julian said, "but I 've seen she

1

"She's a lot besides that." Napier wagged his head in a curiosity-provoking way.

"Well, what else is she?"

Instead of answering, Napier seemed to fall into a brown study.

"There's been so much to talk about since I got back," Julian went on; "otherwise I should have asked about her."

"She interests you?" Napier asked a little sharply.

"Oh, not particularly. Or, rather, yes, if she interests you." As Napier walked on still in silence Julian went on, "I confess I have n't understood her position at the McIntyres."

"Nor anybody else, unless it 's me."
"Oh, you understand?"

"Well, I 've seen a certain amount of her myself, and I 've heard about her from all the rest. I ought to have a pretty good all-round view."

"And have n't you?"

Napier wrinkled his fine brows.

"If I have n't, it is n't, as I say, from lack of data. Only-did you ever know a person that nothing you know about them seems to fit? That is n't grammar, but it's my feeling about that young woman."

The two played a very evenly matched game. As they walked side by side after their balls, Julian wondered from time to time whether, as he strongly suspected, the subject of Miss von Schwarzenberg had been introduced to prevent his reverting to that vision of his, all the clearer since his tour round the world, of a reconstituted society in which vested privilege should no longer have a leg to stand on. Or could it be that Gavan was seriously intrigued by the charming and

no doubt intensely sentimental Rhine maiden? At any rate, he insisted on confiding to his friend as much as he knew about the lady, who more or less as a special favor had consented to superintend the studies and to share the recreations of "that handful," Madge McIntyre, aged sixteen. This girl, with the boyish face and boyish tastes and boyish clothes (whose mane of flaming hair had helped to fasten on her the nickname of Wildfire McIntyre) Julian already knew slightly as the only and much spoiled daughter of Napier's chief. Sir William McIntyre, K. C. B., unofficial adviser to the Admiralty and Laird of Kirklamont, had been the notable chairman of endless shipping companies and the prime promoter of numberless commercial enterprises until he accepted a seat in the cabinet. A man of vigor and some originality of mind, in contrast to his wife, a brainless butterfly of a woman who complained bitterly that she had less trouble with her four sons than with her one daughter. The one daughter, by ill luck, had an inconvenient share of her father's force of character. She ruled the house of McIntyre. That is, according to Napier, she ruled it till the advent of the lady in question.

Her predecessor had been a Miss Gayne. Miss Gayne had been in possession only last summer. That was the year Wildfire McIntyre had played tennis with a fury of enthusiasm that she now bestowed on golf and the latest governess. Napier had heard from Miss Gayne, from the girl herself, and from Lady McIntyre all the details of that fateful morning when Madge, driving along the coast road, came in sight of Glenfallon Castle, and pulled up her pony with a jerk that nearly precipitated poor Miss Gayne out of the cart.

"My goodness gracious! the duke 's back!" Madge had exclaimed.

Glenfallon, on its cliff above the Firth, commanded a view, perhaps the finest and most extensive on the coast, north and south over the many-bayed and channeled mainland, out over rocky islets, shining

jewels of jacinth and jasper and azurite, spilled haphazard into the sea, clear away to that great, gray expanse miscalled by the new governess the German Ocean. Nobody had lived at Glenfallon as long as Madge could remember, so that she might perhaps be pardoned for emitting that excited scream at sight of some workmen dragging away a ponderous lawn-roller, while two young men in tennis flannels busied themselves about the net. One of these young men, racket in hand, suddenly ran backward a few yards and, as though out of sheer gaiety of heart, sent a ball over the net. His companion returned it smartly; before you knew where you were, a game was in.progress.

"We must n't sit here staring at them," Miss Gayne remonstrated.

"Why not? They don't play so badly."

Miss Gayne laboriously explained that her objection had nothing to do with the way the young gentlemen played, but solely with what was fitting for a young lady. Poor Miss Gayne had illustrated, for Mr. Napier's benefit, the impropriety of Madge's attitude, bent forward, her chin in her two hands, her fiery mane spread out cape-wise over her shoulders, her red-brown eyes following the game intently, and calling out the score. "The young one plays best; I like the young one," she said.

Miss Gayne picked up the reins, which Madge had let fall. Madge seized them with an impatient "Don't!" and flung them round the whip.

"But we 'll be late for the luncheon." "We are going to be late for the luncheon."

"It is n't proper to sit like this, staring into a stranger's tennis-court. At two

strange young men, too!"

"I'm only staring at one. have the other."

You can

Presently a tennis-ball came over the wall and bounced into the road. Before Miss Gayne could remonstrate, Madge was out of the cart and had sent the ball hurtling back.

The younger man caught it, and the

elder advanced to the wall to thank the young lady. He was a very good specimen of fair, broad-shouldered, blunt-featured manhood. When he opened his mouth he spoke with a foreign accent.

"Oh, you-a-you 're just getting things in order for him, I suppose." Madge betrayed her innocent suspicion that these might be a pair of superfine men-servants. "When are you expecting him?"

"Expecting whom? We are not expecting anybody, I'm afraid, and the more pleased to see you." He made his quick little bow and turned to present his brother. "This is Ernst Pforzheim, and I am Carl."

Madge nodded, deliberately ignoring Miss Gayne's hurried approach and disapproving presence.

"How do you do? Have you bought Glenfallon?"

They

No, they had only leased it. hoped the change and quiet might do their father some good. He had n't been well ever since-yes, they looked at one another "ever since we lost our mother."

"We have great hopes of this fine air and perfect quiet," said the elder. For a case of strained nerves and insomnia what could be better? They praised the climate, they praised the castle, they praised, above all, the quiet. You 'd think they had none of it in Germany.

"The quiet is the very thing for our father, but for us it may become a little triste. So we play tennis. Do you play tennis, Miss-a-Miss-?"

"Do I play tennis? I say, Miss Gayne, do I play tennis?" She tossed back her hair and laughed. "Miss Gayne, I 'm going to have a game this minute, and if you think you ought to go on or go back, why, take my blessing."

The governess returned in pained silence to the cart and waited till Miss Madge McIntyre had won a set. That young lady parted from her new acquaintances with every mark of amity.

"I'll let you know when to come and get your revenge at Kirklamont," she said.

The adventure was not smiled on at home, but poor Miss Gayne got all the blame. She was not capable, it appeared, even of preventing her charge from making undesirable acquaintances of strange young men; foreigners, too. Oh, Miss Gayne must go.

There was a touch of irony in poor Miss Gayne's being succeeded by some one recommended by, or at least through, these very same undesirable and undoubtedly foreign acquaintances.

The Pforzheim young men had the same success with their country neighbors generally that they had with Madge. Wherever they went the McIntyres began to meet these new inmates of ancient Glenfallon. Everybody seemed to like them. Lady McIntyre liked them, too, from the first. "Such charming manners! It's easy to see they are accustomed to the best society. And so devoted to their poor father!' You can hear Lady McIntyre-" Napier laughed.

Oh, yes, Julian could hear her.

With his pleasant malice Napier described the Pforzheims at Kirklamont, and the graciousness that "so hoped to make your father's acquaintance." The Pforzheims held out little likelihood of this. They shook their heads over the poor gentleman's condition, "confined to a darkened room.'"

"But surely he is better?" Lady McIntyre insisted.

'Better? I wish we could think so!' "But we heard that he was out yesterday evening in your new steamlaunch.'

"Ah, that; yes, that is because his eyes are very painful. He can't bear the least light. So he gets no exercise and no change of air during the day.'

"Well, in that case of course he could n't expect to sleep.' And then Lady McIntyre had an inspiration. 'Does n't it sound,' she appealed to Sir William, 'extremely like the kind of insomnia Lord Rosebery suffers from? I believe it 's the very identical same. And Lord Rosebery has found a cure for his.'

"Great sensation on the part of the

Pforzheims. Oh, would Lady McIntyre tell them? They 'd be eternally grateful if she would only get Lord Rosebery's prescription. But Lady McIntyre could produce it at once. She did produce it. And what do you think it was?"

Julian shook his head. He knew quite well now that Gavan was telling him this yarn in order to avoid reopening the subject of their disagreement, the only one in their lives. So he bore with hearing that Lord Rosebery's remedy for insomnia was a combination of motion and absence of daylight. Then Sir William took a hand. Lord Rosebery had contended that light was a strong excitant. That the consciousness of being seen, of having to acknowledge recognition, or even of knowing your label was being clapped on your back-all that was disturbing in certain states of health. he has himself driven out, they say, about eleven o'clock at night in a sixty-horsepower car, and goes whizzing along lonely. roads, where there's no fear of police traps, as hard as he can lick. When he comes back, he finds that all that ozone, and whatever it is, has quieted him. He sleeps like a top." The sons were advised to put father Pforzheim in a highpowered car and see what would happen.

So

"You have n't got a high-power car? Well, till you can send for one, don't you think, William, we might-"

"But Carl, profuse in thanks, said that, unfortunately, his father had a nervous abhorrence of motor-cars.

"How very strange!' said Lady McIntyre.

"No, it was n't at all strange. 'My mother'-Carl dropped his eyes and compressed his full lips-'our dear mother was killed in a motor accident.'

"But our father'-Ernst looked up as he brushed a white, triple-ringed hand across his eyes-'our father finds the water soothing. After all, Carl, swift motion on the water, why should n't that do as well as racing along a road?'

"And darkness,' said Lady McIntyre. 'And darkness'; The brothers echoed. her together. 'We can never thank you