ICTURE me now, stretched upon a sofa in the very charming morning-room of Seneschal Court, a little bruised, a little shaken still, but making a quick progress towards recovery. Exasperating, no doubt, to be inactive and an invalid when others are well and spending the day in hunting and shooting, but I had two consolations. First of all, Lumme had not beaten me. He, too, had been dismounted a few fields farther on, and though he had ridden farthest, yet I had gone fastest, and could fairly claim to have at least divided the honors. But consolation number two would, I think, have atoned even in the absence of consolation number one. In two words, this comfort was my nurse. Yes, you can picture Amy Trevor-Hudson sitting by the side of that sofa, intent upon a piece of fancy-work that progresses at the rate of six stitches a day, yet not so intent as to be unable to converse with her guest and patient.

“You are really feeling better to-day?” she asks, with that sparkling glance of her brown eyes that accompanies every word, however trivial.

“Thank you; I have eaten two eggs and a plate of bacon for breakfast, and should doubtless be looking forward now to lunch if my thoughts were not so much more pleasantly employed.”

“Are you thinking, then, that you will soon be well enough to go away?”

“I am thinking,” I reply, “that for some days I shall still be invalid enough to lie here and talk to you.”

She does not look up at this, but I can see a charming smile steal over her face and stay there while I look at her.

“Who did you say these things to last?” she inquires, presently, still looking at her work.

“What things? That I am fond of luncheon—or that I am fond of you?”

“I meant,” she replies, looking at me this time with the archest glance, “what girl did you last tell that you were fond of her?”

Now, honestly, I cannot answer this question off-hand with accuracy. I should have to think, and that is not good for an invalid.

“I cannot tell you, because I do not remember her.” I reply.

She puts a wrong construction on this—as I had anticipated.

“I don't believe you,” she says. “I am sure you must have said these things before.”

“If you think my words are false, how can I help myself?” I ask, with the air of one impaled upon an ignited stake, yet resigned to this position. “I dare not dispute with you, even to save my character, for fear you become angry and leave me.”

She smiles again, gives me another dazzling glance, and then, with the elusiveness of woman, turns the subject to this wonderful piece of work that she is doing.

“What do you think of this flower?” she asks.

To obtain the critical reply she desires entails her coming to the side of the couch and holding one edge of the work while I hold the other. Then I endeavor to hold both edges and somehow find myself holding her hand as well. It happens so naturally that she takes no notice of this occurrence but stands there smiling down at me and talking of this flower while I look up at her face and talk also of the flower. In fact, she seems first conscious of that chance encounter of hands when a step is heard in the passage. Then, indeed, she withdraws to her seat and the very faintest rise in color might be distinguished by one who had acquired the habit of looking at her closely.

It was Dick Shafthead who entered, in riding-breeches and top-boots. I may say, by-the-way, that he had not been reduced to a bicycle. On the contrary, he made an excellent display upon a horse for one who affected to be too poor to ride.

“My horse went lame,” he explained, “so I thought I'd come back and have a look at the patient.”

From his look I could sec that he was unprepared to find me already provided with a nurse. Not that it was the first time she had been here—but then I did not happen to have mentioned that to Dick. In a few moments Amy left us and he looked with a quizzical smile first at the door through which she had gone and then at me.

“You take it turn about, I see,” he said. “I didn't know the arrangement or I shouldn't have interrupted.”

“I beg your pardon?” I replied. “Either my head is still somewhat confused or I do not understand English as well as I thought.”

“I imagined Teddy was having a walk-over,” said he, with a laugh.

None are so quick of apprehension as the jealous. Already a dark suspicion smote me.

“Do you allude to Miss Trevor-Hudson?” I asked.

“Who else?”

“And you thought Teddy was having what you call a walk-over?”

“I did,” said Dick. “But it is none of my business.”

“It is my business,” I replied, “to see that this charming lady does not have her name associated with a man she only regards as the merest acquaintance.”

“Has she told you that is how she looks on Teddy?”

“She has.”

Dick laughed outright.

“What are your hours?” he asked. “When does Miss Hudson visit the sick-bed?”

“If you must know,” I replied, “she has had the kindness to visit me every morning; also in the evening.”

“Then Teddy has the afternoons,” said he.

“But he has been hunting.”

“He comes home after lunch, I notice,” laughed Dick.

“I became angry.

“Do you mean that Miss Hudson—”

“Is an incorrigible flirt? Yes,” said he.

“Shafthead, you go too far!” I cried.

“My dear monsieur, I withdraw and I apologize,” he answers, with his most disarming smile. “Have it as you wish. Only—don't let her make a fool of you.”

He turned and walked out of the room whistling, and I was left to digest this dark thought.

Certainly it was true that I did not see much of her in the afternoons, but then, I argued, she had doubtless household duties. Her mother was an affected woman who loved posing as an invalid and had stayed in her room ever since the ball. Therefore she had to entertain the guests; and, now I came to think of it, Lumme would naturally press his suit whenever he saw a chance, and how could she protect herself? Certainly she could never compare that ridiculous little man with—well, with any one you please. It was absurd! I laughed at the thought. Yet I became particularly anxious to see her again.

In the evening she came for a few minutes to cheer my solitude. She could not stay; yet she sat down. I must be very sensible; yet she listened to my compliments with a smile. She was ravishing in her simple dress of white, that cost, I should like to wager, some fabulous price in Paris; she was charming; she was kind. Yes, she had been created to be a temptation to man, like the diamonds in her hair; and she perfectly understood her mission. Inevitably man must wish to play with her, to caress her, to have her all to himself; and inevitably he must get into that state when he is willing to pay any price for this possession. And she was willing to make him—and not unwilling to make another pay also. Indeed, I do not think she could conceivably have had too many admirers.

But I did not criticise her thus philosophically that evening. Instead, I said to her:

“I was afraid I should not see you till to-morrow—and perhaps not to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow?” she asked. “Are you going away, after all?”

“I shall be here; but you?”

“And I suppose I must visit my patient.”

“But if Mr. Lumme does not go hunting—will you then have time to spare?”

She rose and said, as if offended, “I don't think you want to see me very much.”

Yet she did not go. On the contrary, she stood so close to me that I was able to seize her hand and draw her towards me.

“Ah, no!” I cried, “Give me my turn!”

“Your turn?” she asked, drawing away a little.

“Yes; what can I hope for but a brief turn? I am but one of your admirers, and if you are kind to all—”

I paused. She gave me a bright glance, a little smile that drove away all prudence.

“Amy!” I cried; “I have something to give you!”

And I gave her—a kiss.

She protested, but not very stoutly.

“I have something else,” I said. And I was about to present her with a very similar offering—indeed, I was almost in the act of presentation, when she started from me with a cry of, “Let me go!” and before I could detain her she had fled from the room. In her flight she passed a man who was standing at the door, and it was he who spoke next.

“You damned, scoundrelly frog-eater!” he remarked.

It was the voice of my rival, Lumme!

“Ah, monsieur!” I exclaimed, springing up. “You have come to act the spy, I see.”

“I haven't,” he replied. “I came for Miss Hudson—and I came just in time, too!”

“No,” I said, “not just; half a minute after.”

“You dirty, sneaky, French beast!” he cried. “I bring you to a decent house—the first you've ever been to—and you go shamming * sick to get a chance of insulting a virtuous girl!”

“Shamming!” I cried. “Insulting! What words are these?”

“Do you mean to say you aren't shamming? You can walk as well as me!”

Unquestionably I was more recovered than I had admitted to myself while convalescence was so pleasant, and now I had risen from my couch I discovered, to my surprise, that there seemed little the matter with me. That, however, could not excuse the imputation. Besides, I had been addressed by several epithets, each one of which conveyed an insult.

“You vile, low, little English pig!” I replied; “you know the consequences of your language, I suppose?”

“I'm glad to see it makes you sit up,” he replied.

I advanced a step and struck him on the face, and then, seeing that he was about to assault me with his fists, I laid him on the floor with a well-directed kick on the chest.

“Now,” I said, as he rose, “will you fight, or are you afraid?”

“Fight?” he screamed. “Yes; if you'll fight fair, you kicking froggy!”

“As to the weapons,” I replied, “I am willing to leave that question in the hands of our seconds—swords or pistols—it is all the same to me.”

He looked for a moment a little taken aback by my readiness.

“Ah,” I smiled, “you do not enjoy the prospect very much?”

“If you think I'm going to funk you with any dashed weapons, you are mistaken,” said Teddy, hotly. “We don't fight like that in England, but I won't stand upon that. My second is Dick Shafthead.”

“And I shall request Mr. Tonks to act for me,” I replied. “The sooner the better, I presume?”

“To-morrow morning will suit me,” said he.

“Very well,” I answered. “I shall now send a note by my servant to Mr. Tonks.”

I bowed with scrupulous politeness, and he, with an endeavor to imitate this courtesy, withdrew.

Then I rang for Halfred.