'That footman put out everything just as if I were a baby--asked me for suspenders to fasten on my socks; hung the things on a chair in order, as if I couldn't find out for myself what to put on first; turned the tongues of my shoes out!--curled them over!' Then Derek looked at me and said: 'Do they do that for you ?--And poor old Gaunt, who's sixty-six and lame, has three shillings a week to buy him everything.

Just think of that! If we had the pluck of flies--' And he clenched his fists.

But Sheila got up, looked hard at me, and said: 'That'll do, Derek.' Then he put his hand on my arm and said: 'It's only Cousin Nedda!' I began to love him then; and I believe he saw it, because I couldn't take my eyes away.

But it was when Sheila sang 'The Red Sarafan,' after dinner, that I knew for certain.

'The Red Sarafan'-- it's a wonderful song, all space and yearning, and yet such calm--it's the song of the soul; and he was looking at me while she sang.