The other incident was this. Charles picked a sprig of white heather on the hill one afternoon, after a picnic lunch, I regret to say, when he had taken perhaps a glass more champagne than was strictly good for him. He was not exactly the worse for it, but he was excited, good-humoured, reckless, and lively. He brought the sprig to Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell,
Ten per cent, he murmured, is more usual. and handed it to her, ogling a little. 'Sweets to the sweet,' he murmured, and looked at her meaningly. 'White heather to White Heather.' Then he saw what he had done, and checked himself instantly.

Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell coloured up in the usual manner. 'I—I don't quite understand,' she faltered.

Charles scrambled out of it somehow. 'White heather for luck,' he said, 'and—the man who is