“So she is; Minnie is the third.  They are certainly your friends, Mr. Ratcliff.  They are all pretty but the eldest, and all their names begin with M:  Margaret, Miriam, Minnie, and Maud.  Absurd, is it not?”

“Somebody had a strong fancy for alliteration.  So Miss Mildmay is plain?”

“Very plain, very dull, very uninteresting,” said Mrs. Hart and her sister in a breath.  “Much given to stocking-knitting and good works.”

“And good works comprise?” quoth Mr. Ratcliff, interrogatively.

“She sat up every night for a week with Blanche Carter’s children when they had diphtheria, and saved their lives by her nursing,” said Elsie Paine indignantly.  “That is the woman that those good people sneer at.  You are not fair to her, Mrs. Hart.  She has a sweet face when you come to know her.”

“There, you have put Elsie up,” cried mischievous Bertie.  “No more peace for you here, Mrs. Hart.  Come out into the garden with me, and postpone this question in favour of tennis.”

The conclave broke up and Mark Ratcliff said and heard no more of Margaret Mildmay.  He betook himself to solitude and cigars, and as he strode over the breezy downs he wondered what a predilection for stocking-knitting and good works might signify in the once merry girl, and if they might be possibly a form of penance for past misdeeds.

“She did behave abominably,” he said to himself, flinging a cigar-end viciously away into a patch of dry grass, which ignited and required much stamping before it consented to go out.  “Yes, she behaved abominably, and at my time of life I might amuse myself better than in thinking of a fickle girl.  Poor Margaret! stockings and good works—­she might have done as well taking care of me!”

Then he lit another cigar, put up a covey of partridges, remembered how he used to shoot with Margaret’s father, told himself that there was no fool like an old fool—­not referring to Mr. Mildmay in the least—­and took himself impatiently back into the town.

And there he did a very dishonourable thing.

A bowery lane ran at the bottom of the gardens attached to a row of scattered villas, picturesque residences inhabited by well-to-do people; and along the bank were placed benches here and there, inviting the passer-by to rest.

From one of the gardens came the sound of quiet voices, one of which he knew, though it had been unheard for years.  He sat himself deliberately down upon the bench conveniently near the spot, and hearkened to what that voice had to say.

“Sing to me, Margaret, dear,” pleaded the other speaker.  “I am selfish to be always wanting it, I know, but it will not be for long now, and if you do not sing me ‘Will he Come?’ I shall keep on hearing it till I have to try to sing it myself, and that hurts.”

“Hush, Ailie.  You know I will sing,” and Mark Ratcliff held his breath in surprise as the notes of the song rose upward.