“Confidences” had become an established custom with Drina and Boots; it meant that every time they saw one another they were pledged to tell each other everything that had occurred in their lives since their last meeting.

So Drina, excitedly requesting to be excused, jumped up and, taking Lansing’s hand in hers, led him to a sofa in a distant corner, where they immediately installed themselves and began an earnest and whispered exchange of confidences, punctuated by little whirlwinds of laughter from the child.

Eileen settled deeper among her pillows as the table was removed, and Selwyn drew his chair forward.

“Suppose,” she said, looking thoughtfully at him, “that you and I make a vow to exchange confidences?  Shall we, Captain Selwyn?”

“Good heavens,” he protested; “I—­confess to you!  You’d faint dead away, Eileen.”

“Perhaps. . . .  But will you?”

He gaily evaded an answer, and after a while he fancied she had forgotten.  They spoke of other things, of her convalescence, of the engagements she had been obliged to cancel, of the stupid hours in her room—­doubly stupid, as the doctor had not permitted her to read or sew.

“And every day violets from you,” she said; “it was certainly nice of you.  And—­do you know that somehow—­just because you have never yet failed me—­I thought perhaps—­when I asked your confidence a moment ago—­”

He looked up quickly.

“What is the matter with Gerald?” she asked.  “Could you tell me?”

“Nothing serious is the matter, Eileen.”

“Is he not ill?”

“Not very.”

She lay still a moment, then with the slightest gesture:  “Come here.”

He seated himself near her; she laid her hand fearlessly on his arm.

“Tell me,” she demanded.  And, as he remained silent:  “Once,” she said, “I came suddenly into the library.  Austin and Gerald were there; Austin seemed to be very angry with my brother.  I heard him say something that worried me; and I slipped out before they saw me.”

Selwyn remained silent.

“Was that it?”

“I—­don’t know what you heard.”

“Don’t you understand me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, then”—­she crimsoned—­“has Gerald m-misbehaved again?”

“What did you hear Austin say?” he demanded.

“I heard—­something about dissipation.  He was very angry with Gerald.  It is not the best way, I think, to become angry with either of us—­either me or Gerald—­because then we are usually inclined to do it again—­whatever it is. . . .  I do not mean for one moment to be disloyal to Austin; you know that. . . .  But I am so thankful that Gerald is fond of you. . . .  You like him, too, don’t you?”

“I am very fond of him.”

“Well, then,” she said, “you will talk to him pleasantly—­won’t you?  He is such a boy; and he adores you.  It is easy to influence a boy like that, you know—­easy to shame him out of the silly things he does. . . .  That is all the confidence I wanted, Captain Selwyn.  And you haven’t told me a word, you see—­and I have not fainted—­have I?”