“Daphne!  Yes, Daphne.  They all run after Daphne,” my aunt exclaimed, altering the venue once more.  “But there’s no respect for age left. I expect to be neglected.  However, that’s neither here nor there.  The point is this:  you’re the one man now living in the family.  You ought to behave like a brother to Daphne.  Why don’t you board this Holsworthy person and ask him his intentions?”

“Goodness gracious!” I cried; “most excellent of aunts, that epoch has gone past.  The late lamented Queen Anne is now dead.  It’s no use asking the young man of to-day to explain his intentions.  He will refer you to the works of the Scandinavian dramatists.”

My aunt was speechless.  She could only gurgle out the words:  “Well, I can safely say that of all the monstrous behaviour—­” then language failed her and she relapsed into silence.

However, when Daphne and young Holsworthy returned, I had as much talk with him as I could, and when he left the house I left also.

“Which way are you walking?” I asked, as we turned out into the street.

“Towards my rooms in the Temple.”

“Oh!  I’m going back to St. Nathaniel’s,” I continued.  If you’ll allow me, I’ll walk part way with you.”

“How very kind of you!”

We strode side by side a little distance in silence.  Then a thought seemed to strike the lugubrious young man.  “What a charming girl your cousin is!” he exclaimed, abruptly.

“You seem to think so,” I answered, smiling.

He flushed a little; the lantern jaw grew longer.  “I admire her, of course,” he answered.  “Who doesn’t?  She is so extraordinarily handsome.”

“Well, not exactly handsome,” I replied, with more critical and kinsman-like deliberation.  “Pretty, if you will; and decidedly pleasing and attractive in manner.”

He looked me up and down, as if he found me a person singularly deficient in taste and appreciation.  “Ah, but then, you are her cousin,” he said at last, with a compassionate tone.  “That makes a difference.”

“I quite see all Daphne’s strong points,” I answered, still smiling, for I could perceive he was very far gone.  “She is good-looking, and she is clever.”

“Clever!” he echoed.  “Profound!  She has a most unusual intellect.  She stands alone.”

“Like her mother’s silk dresses,” I murmured, half under my breath.

He took no notice of my flippant remark, but went on with his rhapsody.  “Such depth; such penetration!  And then, how sympathetic!  Why, even to a mere casual acquaintance like myself, she is so kind, so discerning!”

“Are you such a casual acquaintance?” I inquired, with a smile.  (It might have shocked Aunt Fanny to hear me; but that is the way we ask a young man his intentions nowadays.)

He stopped short and hesitated.  “Oh, quite casual,” he replied, almost stammering.  “Most casual, I assure you. . . .  I have never ventured to do myself the honour of supposing that . . . that Miss Tepping could possibly care for me.”