“I’ve never given them any reason to do so.”

“Yes, you have,” she contradicted sharply; “you go there, sit by her, and take her into the garden.”

“There is nothing in that,” he rejoined, too chivalrous to add that it was his cousin who sat by, escorted him, and clung to him like the traditional limpet.

“She is five years older than you, I know, but very sweet-tempered, and not a bad manager—­she runs ’Monte Carlo’!”

“Cossie is absolutely nothing to me beyond a cousin; nor have I ever given her reason to think otherwise—­or ever shall.”

“Oh, you are wonderfully bold and courageous here with me; I should like to hear you telling them this at ‘Monte Carlo’!  I know my sister has set her heart on the match; she has been talking to me about the trousseau, and intends to give you table linen, and a silver tea-pot—­she has two.”

“Even the silver tea-pot would not bribe me!” declared Douglas with an angry laugh.

“Well, I can assure you that it’s an understood thing,” persisted his parent, with spiteful emphasis.

“How can it be understood, when I have never asked the girl to marry me and never shall?  Cossie is straight enough and can tell you that herself.”

“Oh, she has told me lots of things!” said her aunt mysteriously.  “Well, to turn to another subject, am I to inform Mr. Levison that you refuse his offer of two hundred a year?  You may come to us for week-ends if you like; he is doing up the house at Tooting and giving me a fine car.”

“No, thank you, I prefer to remain where I am; and now if you’ve told me everything you wished to say, I think I’ll go to bed,” and with a brief “Good night” he departed.

But he did not go to bed when he found himself in his bare fourth-floor room, but sat on the side of his lumpy mattress, and smoked cigarettes for a couple of hours.  He must squash this Cossie question at all costs; even if it led to a disagreeable interview with his relations and made a complete breach between them.  In one sense this breach would mean freedom and relief, and yet he was rather fond of his dowdy old Aunt Emma, and he also liked that slangy slacker Sandy; he could not bear to give anyone pain, or to appear shabby or ungrateful.  Of course he ought to have taken a firm stand weeks ago, and repelled advances that had stolen upon him so insidiously.  He saw this now; yet how can you refuse to accept a flower from a girl, or be such a brute as to leave her notes and telephones unanswered, or rise and desert her when she nestles down beside you on the sofa?  He felt as if he was on the edge of a precipice; and must make a desperate, a life or death struggle; be firm and show no weakness.  To be weak would establish him with a wife, house-linen, and the tea-pot, in some dingy little flat near his office, where, plodding monotonous round like a horse in a mill, he would probably end his days.  Always too anxious