Dora ran across the room from the book-case she was inspecting.

“I would like to shake him!  He is only pretending he doesn’t understand.  I don’t know what we shall do if you won’t come with us.”

“You can’t refuse, Marcus.  It will be an ideal trip—­and such a comfortable yacht—­and the deep blue fiords—­and we’ve got a French chef.  You will be doing us such a favour.”

“Come, say ‘Yes,’” said Dora.

I wish she were not such a bouncing Juno of a girl.  Large, athletic women with hearty voices are difficult for one to deal with.  I am a match for my aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words.  But Dora doesn’t understand my satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, “Oh, rot!” which scatters my intellectual armoury.

“It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me,” I said to my aunt, “and the proposal is tempting—­the prospect is indeed fascinating—­but—­”

“But what?”

“I have so many engagements,” I answered feebly.

My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to the bookshelves in the farther room.  “Can’t you manage to throw them aside?  Poor Dora will be inconsolable.”

I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora’s broad back and sturdy hips.  Inconsolable?  I can’t make out what the good lady is driving at.  If she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to parade me as her appanage.  But titles in her drawing-room are as common as tea-cups.  And the inconsolability of Dora

“If I did come she would be bored to death,” said I.

“She is willing to risk it.”

“But why should she seek martyrdom?”

“There is another reason,” said my aunt, ignoring my pertinent question, but glancing at me reassuringly “there is another reason why it would be well for you to come on this cruise with us.”  She sank her voice.  “You met Miss Gascoigne in the park last week—­”

“A very charming and kind young lady,” said I.

“I am afraid you have been a little indiscreet.  People have been talking.”

“Then theirs, not mine, is the indiscretion.”

“But, my dear Marcus, when you spring a good-looking young person, whom you introduce as your Mohammedan ward, upon London society, and she makes a scene in public—­why—­what else have people got to talk about?”

“They might fall back upon the doctrine of predestination or the price of fish,” I replied urbanely.

“But I assure you, Marcus, that there is a hint of scandal abroad.  It is actually said that she is living here.”

“People will say anything, true or untrue,” said I.

My aunt sighfully acquiesced, and for a while we discussed the depravity of human nature.