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broken his spirit. He's a mild, hopeless sort of ass, who spends all his time at Weeting and has never been known to come to London. He's writing a history of the family or something, I believe.

"'You—didn't—notice—her—hair?' he gasped."

You see, events have conspired, so to speak, to let Florence do pretty much as she likes with them. The family affairs have got themselves into a bit of a muddle. Originally there was Percy's father, Lord Worplesdon; Percy's elder brother Edwin, who's Lord Weeting; Florence, and Percy. Lady Worplesdon has been dead some years. Then came the smash. It happened through Lord Worplesdon. Most people, if you ask them, will tell you that he is bang off his rocker, and I'm not sure they're not right. At any rate, one morning he came down to breakfast, lifted the first cover on the sideboard, said, in a despairing sort of way, "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs! Curse all eggs!" and walked out of the room. Nobody thought much of it till about an hour afterwards, when they found that he had packed a portmanteau, left the house, and caught the train to London. Next day they got a letter from him, saying that he was off to the Continent, never to return, and that all communications were to be addressed to his solicitors.

And from that day none of them had seen him. He wrote occasionally, generally from Paris, and that was all.

Well, directly news of this got about down swooped a series of aunts to grab the helm. They didn't stay long. Florence had them out, one after the other, in no time. If any lingering doubt remained in their minds, don't you know, as to who was going to be boss at Weeting, it wasn't her fault. Since then she has run the show.

I went to Eaton Square. It was one of the aunts' houses. There was no sign of the aunt when I called—she had probably climbed a tree and pulled it up after her—but Florence was in the drawing-room.

She is a tall woman with what, I believe, is called "a presence." Her eyes are bright and black, and have a way of getting right inside you, don't you know, and running up and down your spine. She has a deep voice. She is about ten years older than Percy's brother Edwin, who is six years older than Percy.

"Good afternoon," she said. "Sit down."

I poured myself into a chair.

"Reginald," she said, "what is this I hear about Percy?"

I said I didn't know.

"He says that you introduced him."

"Eh?"

"To this woman—this Mrs. Darrell."

"Mrs. Darrell?"

My memory's pretty rocky, and the name conveyed nothing to me.

She pulled out a letter.

"Yes," she said; "Mrs. Dorothy Darrell."

"Great Scot! Dorothea!"

Her eyes resumed their spine-drill.

"Who is she?"

"Only a palmist."

"Only a palmist!" Her voice absolutely boomed. "Well, my brother Percy is engaged to be married to her."

"Many happy returns of the day." I said.

I don't know why I said it. It wasn't