"Obvious to anybody that if the Vibart youth hangs round Uncle Matthew's, Uncle Matthew will think twice of being so fond of our sweet cousin."
"Pamela, you're a genius," her mother declared proudly.
"Oh, she is, she is!" cried Cousin Edith, clapping her hands with excitement, for the scheme appealed to the innate procuress within her. "I should never have thought of anything half as clever. She's a...."
"Edith," her own rich cousin interposed, "I wish you wouldn't be quite so enthusiastic."
"I'm so sorry," Edith murmured humbly. "Shall I go and give Spottles his bath? Poor old boy, he's been rolling again, Cook says." And by the way in which she washed her own hands as she went out of the room Cousin Edith managed to suggest with suitable regret that she too had been rolling.
Within three days of this conversation Harry Vibart called on Jasmine at Rouncivell Lodge.
"Look here," he said reproachfully, "why didn't you ever write?"
"You never wrote to me." Jasmine tried to be cold and dignified, but she was so glad to see him again that it was not a successful attempt.
"I wrote you six letters."
"I never got them. I expect my aunt wouldn't allow them to be forwarded."