“If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas wants to see you, and he wont come up.”

“I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” said Elinor.

“He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” said the maid.

“Tell him I will come down,” said Marian.

“He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would not come up.  I am in disgrace, I suppose.”

“Nonsense, Nelly!  But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.”

Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian’s guileless eyes, but resumed her technical studies without saying anything.  Marian went to the dining-room, where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall and handsome, frock coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness that established a sort of relationship between him and the sideboard, the condition of which did credit to Marian’s influence over her housemaids.  He looked intently at her as she bade him good morning.

“I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half apologetically.

“Not at all,” said Marian.

“I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longer than I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope to find you alone.  I hope I have not disturbed you.  I have something rather important to say.”

“You are the same as one of ourselves, of course, Sholto.  But I believe you delight in stiffness and ceremony.  Will you not come upstairs?”

“I wish to speak to you privately.  First, I have to apologize to you for what passed last night.”

“Pray dont, Sholto:  it doesnt matter.  I am afraid we were rude to you.”

“Pardon me.  It is I who am in fault.  I never before made an apology to any human being; and I should not do so now without a painful conviction that I forgot what I owed to myself.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself—­I mean for never having apologized before.  I am quite sure you have not got through life without having done at least one or two things that required an apology.”

“I am sorry you hold that opinion of me.”

“How is Brutus’s paw?”

“Brutus!”

“Yes.  That abrupt way of changing the subject is what Mrs. Fairfax calls a display of tact.  I know it is very annoying; so you may talk about anything you please.  But I really want to hear how the poor dog is.”

“His paw is nearly healed.”

“I’m so glad—­poor old dear!”

“You are aware that I did not come here to speak of my mother’s dog, Marian?”

“I supposed not,” said Marian, with a smile.  “But now that you have made your apology, wont you come upstairs?  Nelly is there.”