are; and too critical of yourself, as well as of others. You very seldom let yourself go. Your reticence is positively a disease, in a mixed company. With Miss Shaw you never seem perfectly at your ease."
"I am not."
"There! You own it. And why, pray?"
"She expects more attention from men than I choose to give, and therefore she receives whatever I say with a certain antagonism. I feel it—I know it. If I criticize her work, she thanks me; but she at once goes and follows George's advice rather than mine."
Hatty made a queer little grimace. "Jealous, eh? That is promising!"
"Jealous! Not the least. This young Englishman—his views of art, his glibness, his spirits—it all suits her better than I ever could. I do not enter into the competition, you see. Neither you nor I care for this Mr. George; but that does not affect the question."
"Are you quite sure? Well, no one can open her eyes as to your superiority over every other man here but yourself." Here she lay back with a look of exhaustion; then added, a moment later, "I cannot bear that my brother and the only woman-friend I have should stand thus aloof. Good night, Ally. I am so tired; I must crawl into bed now. God bless you!"
He left her with a sore heart. Not that he realized how ill she was. She was always delicate, always catching cold; he had given up being alarmed as to her condition. But her words had stirred him. His position, he told himself, was a strong one; but, defend it as he might, Hatty's attack had destroyed some of its
