Hamil, who was to leave for the North with his aunt and Virginia early next morning, returned from the forest about sundown, reeking as usual of the saddle, and rested a moment against the terrace balustrade watching Mrs. Cardross and Shiela over their tea.

“That boy is actually ill,” said the sympathetic matron.  “Why don’t you give him some tea, Shiela?  Or would you rather have a little wine and a biscuit, Garret—?”

“And a few pills,” added Shiela gravely.  “I found a box of odds and ends—­powders, pills, tablets, which he might as well finish—­”

“Shiela!  Garret is ill!”

Hamil, busy with his Madeira and biscuit, laughed.  He could not realise he was on the eve of leaving, nor could Shiela.

“Never,” said he to the anxious lady, “have I felt better in my life; and I’m sure it is due to your medicines.  It’s all very well for Shiela to laugh at quinine; mosquitoes don’t sting her.  But I’d probably be an item in one of those phosphate beds by this time if you hadn’t taken care of me.”

Shiela laughed; Hamil in excellent humour went off to dress.  Everybody seemed to be in particularly good spirits that evening, but later, after dinner, Gray spoke complainingly of the continued absence of his father.

“As for Acton Carrick, he’s the limit,” added Gray disgustedly.  “He hasn’t been here this winter except for a day or two, and then he took the train from Miami straight through to New York.  I say, Hamil, you’ll look him up and write us about him, won’t you?”

Shiela looked at Hamil.

“Do you understand anything about financial troubles?” she asked in a bantering voice.

“I’ve had some experience with my own,” he said.

“Well, then, what is the matter with the market?”

“Shall I whisper it?”

“If you are prepared to rhyme it.  I dare you!”

It was the rule of the house that anybody was privileged to whisper at table provided they put what they had to communicate into rhyme.

So he thought busily a moment, then leaned over very gravely and whispered close to her ear: 

    “Tis money makes the market go;
    When money’s high the market’s low;
    When money’s low the market’s right,
    And speculators sleep at night. 
    But, dear, there is another mart,
    Where ticks the ticker called my heart;
    And there exhaustless funds await,
    To back my bankrupt trust in Fate;
    For you will find, as I have found,
    The old, old logic yet is sound,
    And love still makes the world go round.”

“I always knew it,” said Shiela contemptuously.

“Knew what, dear?” asked her mother, amused.

“That Mr. Hamil writes those sickening mottoes for Christmas crackers.”

“There are pretty ones in them—­sometimes,” said Cecile, reminiscently spearing a big red strawberry which resembled the popular and conventional conception of a fat human heart.