Let us go back a couple of hours and see what has been engaging Miss Arkwright and Lionel since their interview with Tony. They are still reclining in the hammock-chair, which they have been obliged to move, more than once, retreating before the all-conquering sun. They have talked for a space, but nothing of their conversation is worthy of a recorder's pen, and at last they have fallen silent, each occupied with busy musings. Lionel, of course, has had plenty to think about since the early telegram—new schemes to mature, fresh hopes to be weighed, old difficulties to brush aside or evade. Winifred's silence, too, is not extraordinary. Apart from her secret history—and she must have a secret, to be sure, if not a dozen—there is matter for consideration in her present milieu. Putting aside the trivial incident of the five-days'-old attack (and an intriguer can not spend much time on trifles, especially when they end happily), there is the problem of Tony to be pondered over. But, at the worst, he can only be looked on as a light-hearted dilettante, whose greatest misfortune is the curse of wealth. Such, at least, is Winifred's shrewd guess, and we know how near the mark the arrow has fallen. Then, Lionel ... what shall she do with him? Is it better to keep him with her longer, a cheerful gentleman who seems quite content to waste his time in her company, despite the chilling fact that he appears equally content to chaff their prisoner if she is busy in the house? Or shall she send him away?

Winifred stole a glance at Lionel, pondering with knit brows, and permitted herself a smile that was unseen by him. Was she thinking of his pursuit in the garden, the hurled water-jug, or the exposure of Mizzi? Perhaps the latter; for the smile was followed by a delectable frown that did not mar the poetry of her face. It seemed, indeed, to act but as a foil, enhancing the smile that followed again like a victor,—a victor that has retreated, only to return.

As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in.

"Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for you."

Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy interest, had not yet opened her budget.

"I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.

"The worst," said Lionel with a grim absence, not looking up. Presently his face cleared and he smiled. "That is," he corrected himself, with a hasty glance at her, "I mean the best. Yes, certainly the best."

Winifred bit her lip and looked away with a puzzled discontent. What did he mean? The worst and the best ... strong words for a man of his age to use. The "worst" and the "best" should only be applied to strong emotions, such as are caused by love, money, or honor. Which of these potent stimulants was at work?

"I am going in," she said suddenly. "Please don't get up. If I can be of any help in any way, you must let me know. But I ... I am glad your news is 'the best.'"

She went into the house, leaving Lionel to his letter. This was it.

"Bloomsbury, London.

"My Dear Friend,—The cable announcing Lukos' death came to-night at seven. As soon as I had recovered from the shock I wired the news to you, but I do not expect that the telegram will be delivered till to-morrow morning. And now, at half past eight, I am sitting down to write very hurriedly, to tell you of my plans.

"I mean to go straight to Constantinople within two days. Why? To make sure, in the first instance—to find out for myself if he is really dead, and if it was 'measles' or something worse. I feel that the news must be true, but I must make certain. If it is true, then perhaps I can do something by way of revenge. You, I hope, will still befriend me by trying to regain the stolen papers. They may be of use to England yet. If not to England, then to me—a woman who has lost her husband. This is no time to assess my love for him, but I owe something at least to his memory, and the debt shall be paid.

"I must see you before leaving, and I hope to come down to Shereling to-morrow. Please tell my sister. You know our differences, but I am sure she will sympathize and help me. Yes; I am sure. I believe now that I was wrong in suspecting her—my information was untrustworthy, but I had every excuse. In haste.—Your friend,

"Beatrice Blair."

Lionel's heart leaped as he read a second and a third time the words of comfort. At the first casual glance he could only understand that Beatrice was going out of his life, perhaps forever, and he plumbed depths hitherto undreamed of. But after the blow came the reaction and a saner grasp of the true importance of her news. He was on fire, yet coldly logical. The white heat of his heart and brain told him that here at last was hope realized, the goal reached, the attainment of certainty. The knowledge that he could not bear to lose her told him that he loved, and that his love was worthy of a declaration. He breathed a prayer of thankfulness.

Doubt of a prosaic nature was swift to follow. He loved her and must ask her to marry him. Yet, how could he ask her? He had not a penny in the world save what she had given him as her paid employee. How could he ask her to wed and coolly propose to live on her income? Lionel made short work of that. "I know," he said to himself, thinking swiftly but with honest logic, "that I am not mercenary. I would marry her in rags if she'd have me. As she happens to have money, so much the better. If by good luck she loves or learns to love me, she will not think me mercenary. Why should a pair of lovers wait when the only obstacle is a convention?—a convention good enough in itself (a proper discouragement of the ordinary place-hunter and hypocrite)—but a convention none the less. The exception shall prove the rule, for neither she nor I could be accused of conventionality."

He laughed aloud. Still, there was a kind of discomfort in the laugh, for the conventions of a thousand years or more can not be laughed away in a moment, be the iconoclast never so hardy. In spite of his honesty and brave words, Lionel, in the dim recesses of consciousness, knew that he wished he could have said, "My dear, I love you and can afford to pay for a home!" He knew that from the idealist's standpoint he was right, but the purest cups of nectar may reveal an acid in the lees. Still, he drank his nectar and was very glad.

Presently his face grew graver. "I must wait though," he reflected. "One can't propose the moment one hears she is a widow—too indecent. Besides, she may not love me.... I must give her time.... At least, though, I'll go with her to Constantinople. If she won't think of me as a husband or lover, by jove! I'll be her dragoman! She mustn't go there alone.... And now, let's break the news to Winifred."

He found Miss Arkwright in the library and told her of her sister's intention to come down to The Quiet House. To his disgust she began to make difficulties.

"You know, Mr. Mortimer, that we do not agree on her choice of a career——"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I know all that. But this is a serious business. She is going to Turkey in a day or two, and wishes to see me before leaving. Surely——"

"She does me the honor of suspecting me of conspiracy," returned Miss Arkwright slowly, but with a resentful gleam. "I have told you that she is mistaken. Why should a conspirator lend her hospitality?"

"She acknowledges her error," said Lionel. "You must forgive much to a woman who has suffered so cruelly as she."

"I will not," said Winifred deliberately. "I have not said much to you on the subject, but now I will not conceal from you that I have been deeply wounded."

"Are you not great enough to forgive?" he urged, fair play telling him that she had a right to feel indignation—if she were innocent! He tried in vain to find a melting in her eye.

"No," said Winifred, still very deliberately and coldly. "I am a woman, and can not forgive her lack of trust as yet. I will yield so far as to allow her to come here and see you, as she is going abroad, but I will not see her myself."

"Your sister?" he suggested, still hoping.

"No," repeated Winifred. "On that I am immovable. Be content and—leave me!"

Her voice trembled over the concluding words, and the next moment she buried her face in her hands, leaning forward over the table. There were no sobs—no tears escaping from that indomitable lady, but her attitude was eloquent of tragedy. Lionel was not so foolish as to attempt consolation. He left the room, hoping to soften her before Beatrice came down.

The morning dragged wearily, but at last the luncheon-gong sounded, and Lionel went to the dining-room. Winifred joined him at the meal, but neither had much to say. Lionel, though understanding her resentment, could not excuse it, and his attitude in consequence was chilly. Winifred, reading his condemnation, made no effort further to justify herself, and both were glad when the meal came to an end. Before leaving the room she said, "If you prefer to see my sister in the house, the library will be at your disposal."

"I prefer the garden," he replied stiffly, and he thought he caught a smile.

"Suppose it rains?"

"There is The Happy Heart."

"But your promise still holds," she reminded him.

"If Miss Blair prefers the inn," said Lionel with polite determination, "we go there. That, of course, will cancel the promise, and you will not see me again. In case she does," he added more softly, "I had better say good-by now. Thank you for many kindnesses."

"There is nothing to thank me for," she replied, looking confused.

"There is. And I wish you would give me one thing more for which to thank you," said Lionel, taking her hand. Her eyes dropped. She blushed, but did not free herself.

"And that is——?" she murmured.

"It would be a great happiness to see you and your sister reconciled."

She wrenched her hand away.

"Do not ask me that again," she replied, seeming both disappointed and pettish. "I have given you my answer already. Now, please, will you be kind enough to tell the prisoner I wish to see him. He can stop work and change. I will wait for him in my sitting-room up-stairs."

Lionel went in search of Tony. He found the latter pocketing his pipe, preparatory to a fresh attack upon the mound of earth. "Miss Arkwright says you can stop," said Lionel genially. "You may go and get clean; she wishes to see you."

"What about my work?" objected Tony. "You know, old friend—forgive me, but I seem to have known you for years—I am making quite a good job of that bed. Exegi monumentum Ære perennius! What? That's about all I have left of a thousand-pound education. What I mean to say is that future generations may come and look at my flower bed as being the beau-ideal—the standard—the Super-bed, and so forth. Honestly, I'm beginning to be quite proud of the little chap—it's a most promising child. I say, between old schoolmates and that sort of jolly palaver, what does she want me for?"

"Haven't a notion, friend of my youth," said Lionel sympathetically. Knowing nothing of Tony, he felt nevertheless an attraction and a mutual bond. "You'd better do as she tells you."

The bed-builder arose.

"Of course. I say, do you think she'll let me stay here for a bit longer? What I mean is, has she any intention of carting me at once?"

"I haven't a notion."

"You see ... here's the bed ... some one must finish it. I should hate to think of another artist putting in his oar. The bed, in short, worries me."

"Ask her to take you on as gardener," suggested Lionel, smiling at the absurd creature.

"I wonder...." Tony moved off with dragging dissatisfied steps. After progressing a few yards he turned. There was hesitation in his voice and manner.

"I—I say, oh, companion of my infancy, I wonder if you'd mind me asking you a question? Of course, we've not been introduced and all that, and I hope you'll not regard it as a liberty, faux pas, double entendre, or what-not. But do you mind telling me if you're engaged to her?"

"Lord, no!" said Lionel, mightily surprised. "Not the least intention of trying. If that's all your trouble, go in and win. And good luck to you!"

"I say," observed Tony with a most engaging smile, "you're a blind ass, old yoke fellow of my youth; but you're no end of a sportsman. One more question—I promise that I'm quite a decent chap, though appearances are against me—is she engaged to any one else?"

"Not that I know of."

"The planet Jupiter is in conjunction with Saturn, or words to that effect. Whatever the stars are, I seem to be in luck. Oh, of course she mayn't look at me, I know. We must give her time to appreciate my many excellences—not dream of rushing things. But she has made my few days' stay so pleasant, that common gratitude——"

"No: don't spoil it!" said Lionel, reading something beneath Tony's idle chatter; "you don't mean that." Tony looked at him and changed his tone.

"What I do mean," he said sincerely, "is that she's a perfectly top-hole creature. She's taught me a few things—not excluding work, in which she must share the credit with others—during the last few days. I want to extend the lessons. Well, I think a little soap and water might be rather a promising start. Where am I to see her? Up-stairs?"

He strolled off whistling cheerfully, bearing Lionel's good wishes. The latter was in a good humor with all the world to-day: he felt like giving a sovereign to every child, and a five-pound note to every grown-up. "If ever I make a hit with my plays," he thought, "I'll give the vicar a peal of bells and Mrs. Peters—what on earth could I give to Mrs. Peters? I suppose a calf-bound set of her husband's sermons would be the most acceptable souvenir, unless she's human enough to enjoy diamonds. Yes, I think it might be diamonds." He smiled at his happy visions, and walked back to the hammock-chair to wait till Beatrice should appear.

He did not know, of course, whether she was coming by rail or motor, and therefore did not trouble to look out possible trains. He was quite content to wait patiently for her in that delightful garden, knowing now that he loved her, and hoping she might love, or learn to love him. But though he was content and patient, he could not distract himself, or spend the lagging hours with books or newspapers. He tried, indeed, but failed. After reading a few lines he found his attention wandering: he could not compel his brain to follow the paltry adventures of Mudie's heroines, or the stupendous feats chronicled in the daily press. Instead, his thoughts flew back to that lucky rescue in the Strand, to the wondrous hours with Beatrice in the theater or in the Bloomsbury flat, to the mad adventure of the magnanimous churchwarden, to the thousand incidents of the past adventurous month. He could not read, but tobacco was no hindrance to the brave play of memory and imagination, and with a luxurious smile he lighted a pipe and drowsed. Presently, between the nicotian clouds, he thought, "I must make Winifred be friends. What scheme shall I try? Winifred is a dear, too, though she has a woman's resentment. What can I do to make them all happy—to make every one happy? Winifred ... Beatrice...."

The besotted lover, overcome with his soul's reaction, the June sun and a crowded morning, fell asleep....

He was roused by a touch upon the shoulder. He awoke and blinked lazily toward heaven. Beside him stood an angel in a lavender linen frock, and a lavender hat with a daring touch of black, carrying a lavender parasol with a white handle. It was Beatrice at last!