are bound to play for them as well as you know how—aren't you, my dear?" The soft fall of her voice laid a siren's spell upon him. His eyes glowed as he looked at her.
"No, I don't see it in that way," he said. "Somehow I can't. It's my colonial outlook, I daresay—anyhow there it is—simply us two. The bedrock of the matter is you and me? And when you get down to that, other people don't come in, do they?"
Again she shook a head rather woeful in its defiance. "Poor Aunt Harriet came to me yesterday. I wish you could have seen her. This means the end of the world for her. She almost went down on her knees to implore me not to marry you."
The Tenderfoot snorted with impatience. "That's where this old one-horse island gets me all the time. Things are all wrong here. They're positively medieval."
"You forget"—the tone of the voice was stern dissent—"she's been thirty years a servant in the Family."
"That should make her all the prouder to see her niece married to the head of it." He was determined to stand his ground.
"Yes, but she understands what it means to them. She has thought herself into their skins; she lives and moves and has her being in Bridport House. Dear soul, it makes me weep to think of her! She almost forced me to give you up."
"You can't do that, not on grounds of that kind."
"Why can't I?"
"Because I won't let you." She was bound to admire this masculine decision. "Your Aunt Sanderson is a
