“Margie dear,” said Mr. Trevlyn, pausing in his work of buttering a muffin, “I want you to look your prettiest to-night.  I am going to bring home a friend of mine—­one who was also your father’s friend—­Mr. Linmere.  He arrived from Europe to-day.”

Margie’s cheek lost a trifle of its peachy bloom.  She toyed with her spoon, but did not reply to his remark.

“Did you understand me, child?  Mr. Linmere has returned.”

“Yes sir.”

“And is coming here to-night.  Remember to take extra pains with yourself, Margie, for he has seen all the European beauties, and I do not want my little American flower to be cast in the shade.  Will you remember it?”

“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Trevlyn.”

“Margie!”

“Yes!”

“You are aware that Mr. Linmere is your affianced husband, are you not?”

“I have been told so.”

“And yet in the face of that fact—­well, of all things, girls do beat me!  Thank heaven, I have none of my own!” he added testily.

“Girls are better let alone, sir.  It is very hard to feel one’s self bound to fulfil a contract of this kind.”

“Hard!  Well, now, I should think it easy.  Mr. Linmere is all that any reasonable woman could wish.  Not too old, nor yet too young; about forty-five, which is just the age for a man to marry; good-looking, intelligent and wealthy—­what more could you ask?”

“You forgot that I do not love him—­that he does not love me.”

“Love! tush!  Don’t let me hear anything about that.  I loath the name.  Margie, love ruined my only son!  For love he disobeyed me and I disowned him, I have not spoken his name for years!  Your father approved of Mr. Linmere, and while you were yet a child you were betrothed.  And when your father died, what did you promise him on his deathbed?”

Margie grew white as the ribbons at her throat.

“I promised him that I would try and fulfil his requirements.”

“That you would try!  Yes.  And that was equal to giving an unqualified assent.  You know the conditions of the will, I believe?”

“I do.  If I marry without your consent under the age of twenty-one, I forfeit my patrimony.  And I am nineteen now.  And I shall not marry without your consent.”

“Margie, you must marry Mr. Linmere.  Do not hope to do differently.  It is your duty.  He has lived single all these years waiting for you.  He will be kind to you, and you will be happy.  Prepare to receive him with becoming respect.”

Mr. Trevlyn considered his duty performed, and went out for his customary walk.

At dinner Mr. Linmere arrived.  Margie met him with cold composure.  He scanned her fair face and almost faultless form, with the eye of a connoisseur, and congratulated himself on the fortune which was to give him, such a bride without the perplexity of a wooing.  She was beautiful and attractive, and he had feared she might be ugly, which would have been a dampener on his satisfaction.  True, her wealth would have counter-balanced any degree of personal deformity; but Mr. Paul Linmere admired beauty, and liked to have pretty things around him.