much as Julia Thurnbrein."

He nodded sympathetically.

"They are prejudiced," he admitted. "All of them are disgusted with me
for being down here. They look with grave suspicion upon my ability to
wear a dress suit. It is just that narrowness which has set back the
clock a hundred years. . . . How I like your idea of an open-air
drawing-room! Mr. Foley hasn't been looking for me, has he? I am due
in his study in three minutes."

Her finger touched his arm.

"Come with me for one moment," she insisted, a little abruptly.

She led him down one of the walks--a narrow turf path, leading through
great clumps of rhododendrons. At the bottom was the wood where the
nightingale had his home. After a few paces she stopped.

"Mr. Maraton," she said, "this may be our last serious word together,
for when you have talked with my uncle you will have made your decision.
Look at me, please."

He looked at her. Just then the nightingale began to sing again, and
curiously enough it seemed to him that a different note had crept into
the bird's song. It was a cry for life, an absolutely pagan note, which
came to him through the velvety darkness.

"Isn't it your theory," she whispered, "to destroy for the sake of the
future? Don't do it. Theory sometimes sounds so sublime, but the