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that we should ever have had much hold— or even control—over you.” Gregory Picton looked amused again. “We are not your legal guardians. But—I can’t answer for my fellow trustees—I myself feel I have some sort of moral responsibility with regard to your welfare, whatever the size of the estate.”
    “Very proper,” murmured Mr. Carisbrooke approvingly.
    But Cecile merely said flatly and rather rudely, "Why?”
    “Because, my dear, your father was very good to me when I was a very young man and needed an older friend,” Gregory Picton told her. “If he thought me a trustworthy person to look after his daughter when he was gone, I have no intention of rejecting that obligation, either because the estate turns out to be a modest affair, after all, or because I seem rather an unpopular choice with the daughter concerned.”
    There was silence for a moment, while Cecile considered whether or not this were intended as an olive branch. But she decided that, even if it were, it had been waved altogether too casually under her nose. And so she simply asked, somewhat coldly, “How long does this trust last?”
    “Until you are twenty-three.”
    “Why not twenty-one? Isn’t that more usual?”
    “I suppose your father thought twenty-three a safer age for you to be on your own,” Gregory Picton said, while Mr. Carisbrooke observed that these matters were at the discretion of the deceased.
    Then Gregory Picton rose and said he must go.
    “Where are you staying, Cecile?”
    “At the Stirling House Hotel.”
    “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening? We can discuss things in more detail then. And perhaps—” he smiled again—“get to know each other better.”
    She would have liked to refuse. But, as this was impossible, she thanked him formally and accepted. And, having arranged to fetch her at seven the following evening, he bade Mr. Carisbrooke goodbye. He was actually at the door before he turned and said: “Oh, Cecile, I don’t want to act the heavy guardian, but I would rather you did not attempt to meet your mother until after we have had a talk together.”
    Then he went off, apparently under the impression that it was enough for him to make his wishes known. Cecile looked after him and her eyes sparkled dangerously. But she said nothing, for the simple reason that he had not waited long enough for her to do so.
    Mr. Carisbrooke then recalled himself to her notice by clearing his throat once more, and then informed her that he would be applying for probate of her father’s will, after which it would be easier to clarify the financial position.
    “When Mr. Picton says there isn’t much money left,” said Cecile thoughtfully, “does that mean that I had better set about earning my own living as quickly as possible?”
    To this Mr. Carisbrooke gave it as his opinion that there was no immediate urgency, “—though there will certainly not be sufficient for you to live on without augmenting your income,” he hastened to add, before Cecile should get any exaggerated ideas.
    “Well, that’s all right.” Cecile was philosophical. “Most people have to do at least that. And it will be more interesting than living in a mouldy old house in Yorkshire. I shall sell the house, of course,” she added with authority.
    Mr. Carisbrooke forbore to point out that she would have to consult the trustees, and contented himself with adding, somewhat pessimistically, “If you can find a buyer.”
    “ Y e s. And. if there is enough money, I should like our two maids to have a small pension each,” Cecile continued f irmly. At which Mr. Carisbrooke looked rather alarmed.
    "Miss Bernadine, there won’t be enough money to throw about.”
    “I shan't throw it about,” Cecile assured him. “But they are old and can’t work, while I am young and can.”
    “I see.” Mr. Carisbrooke’s expression softened. “It’s as simple as that, is it?”
    Cecile thought it was. And presently, having assured Mr.