He was just the right
age; he was handsome, he was clever, his tawny brown beard had the
faintest little touch of artistic redness, and was trimmed and
dressed with provoking nicety. He was an artist too; and girls
nowadays, you know, have such an unaccountable way of falling in
love with men who can paint, or write verses, or play the violin,
or do something foolish of that sort, instead of sticking fast to
the solid attractions of the London Stock Exchange or of ancestral
acres.
Mrs. Clifford confided her fears that very night to the sympathetic
ear of the Companion of the Militant and Guardian Saints of the
British Empire.
"Reginald," she said solemnly, "I told you the other day, when you
asked about it, Elma wasn't in love. And at the time I was right,
or very near it. But this afternoon I've had an opportunity of
watching them both together, and I've half changed my mind. Elma
thinks a great deal too much altogether, I'm afraid, about this
young Mr. Waring."
"How do you know?" Mr. Clifford asked, staring her hard in the
face, and nodding solemnly.
The British matron hesitated. "How do I know anything?" she answered
at last, driven to bay by the question. "I never know how.
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