Alwynne was spending a contented morning. She had made her peace with Elsbeth over-night, and at the ensuing breakfast had been something of a feasted prodigal. Elsbeth had made no objection to her plans for the afternoon, but had suggested that, as Roger was coming to lunch, Alwynne might take him for a walk in the morning. He was sure to arrive by twelve. Alwynne, her head full of Clare's birthday and Clare's birthday present, acquiesced graciously. Indeed, she was herself anxious to talk to him again, to show him how completely she and Elsbeth were in accord, to prove to him, once and for all, though with kindly firmness, how uncalled for his comments had been. She believed that they had not parted the best of friends last night.... A pity—Roger could be such a dear when he chose.... Yesterday afternoon, for instance.... She found herself blushing hotly, as she recalled the details of yesterday afternoon.

Her thoughts were divided evenly between Roger and Clare as she sat at her work-table, running the last ribbon through the foamy laces and embroideries. She was proud of her work, and thrilled with pleasurable anticipations of Clare's comments. Clare would be pleased, wouldn't she?

Elsbeth, helping her to fold the dainty garment, and wondering wistfully if Alwynne would ever be found spending a tenth of the time and trouble on her own trousseau that she lavished on presents for people who did not appreciate them, was quite sure that Clare would be more than pleased. She could not cloud Alwynne's happy face; but she hoped to goodness that Roger would come soon.... She was sick of the word Clare.

Alwynne despatched her parcel by messenger-boy. She would not trust it to the post—yet it must arrive before she did. Clare hated to be confronted with you and your gift together. She hoped that Clare would not be in a mood when gifts were anathema. You never knew with Clare.

She paid the boy with a bright shilling and a slice of inviolate company cake, and was guiltily endeavouring so to squeeze and compress its girth, that Elsbeth would not notice the enlarged gap at tea-time, when Roger arrived.

She slid the tin hastily back into the cupboard.

"I won't shake hands," she said. "But it's stickiness, not ill-feeling."

Roger frowned aside the remark. He was looking excited, extremely pleased with himself, yet a trifle worried. He had the air of a man who had been priding himself on doing the right thing, and is suddenly stricken with doubt as to whether, after all, he had not made a mess of the business. He confronted her.

"I expect I've got it wrong," he remarked, with gloomy triumph. "I hate coloured stones myself."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Alwynne.

"Which is it, anyhow?"

"Which is what?"

"Which is your favourite stone?"

Alwynne gazed at him blankly.

"What on earth——?" she began.

Roger frowned anew.

"Don't argue with me. Which is your favourite stone?"

"I don't know—emeralds, I think."

He gave a sigh of relief, not entirely make-believe.

"Of course! I knew I was right. Elsbeth swore to pearls."

"Oh, I've always coveted her string. She's going to give it to me when I'm forty. I'd like to know what you're talking about, Roger, if you don't mind?"

"Why forty?"

"Years of discretion! You are tidy and never lose anything once you're forty. But why? Were you having a bet?"

"Not exactly." Roger searched his pockets. "Here, catch hold!"

He had produced a small package, gay with sealing-wax and coloured string. He handed it to her awkwardly, with immense detachment.

She opened it curiously.

In a little white kid case lay an emerald, round and shining like a safety signal. It was set in silver, quaintly carven.

Alwynne exclaimed.

"Oh, Roger! How gorgeous! How perfectly ripping! Where did you pick it up? Was it awfully expensive?"

Roger had been beaming in a gratified fashion, but at her question his jaw dropped.

"Well," he began. "Well—I——"

His expression struck her.

"Do you mind my asking? It's only because it is so exactly what I've always longed to give Clare. I'm saving. I'm going to, some day. Clare loves emeralds."

"Perhaps," said Roger, with elaborate irony, "you'd like to give her this? Don't mind me."

She glanced up at him, startled, puzzled.

"This?"

"It happens to be your engagement ring," he remarked offendedly.

Alwynne began to laugh, but a trifle uncertainly. To laugh without accompaniment or encouragement is uneasy work, and Roger's face was entirely expressionless. She felt that her laughter was sounding affected, and ceased abruptly, her foot tapping the floor, a glint of annoyance in her eye.

"What are you talking about?" she attacked him.

"Your engagement ring, wasn't it?" he said.

"Are you by any chance serious?"

"Perfectly." Roger's schoolboy awkwardness, due to his encounter with an unexpectedly facetious jeweller, was wearing off.

"My engagement ring?"

"We'll change it, of course," he said, with maddening politeness, "if you really prefer pearls."

"Presupposing an engagement?" Alwynne was on her high horse.

"To me. That was the idea, I think. Elsbeth is delighted."

Alwynne dismounted hastily again, though she kept a hand on the bridle.

"Roger—this is beyond a joke. What have you been saying to Elsbeth?"

"Why, my dear," he said gently, "very much what I told you yesterday afternoon."

Alwynne grew scarlet.

"Roger—we were in fun yesterday. We were joking. I forget what it was all about. There was nothing to tell Elsbeth."

"Yes, you do forget," he said.

"Yes. I have. I want to," she answered unsteadily. "You know you weren't serious. Why, you were laughing at me—you know you were."

"Do you never laugh when you're serious?"

"Never!" said Alwynne earnestly.

"Well, then, we're like the Cheshire cat and dog. But I laugh when I'm most amazingly serious sometimes, Alwynne. I was yesterday, and I think you knew it."

"I didn't," said Alwynne stubbornly. "We only just talked nonsense. All about Holt Meadows—you know it was nonsense."

"I didn't," said Roger, with equal stubbornness.

"You did," said Alwynne.

"I didn't," said Roger.

"Oh, of course, if you're going to lose your temper——" cried Alwynne.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. It was deadlock.

Alwynne looked at him. He was grave enough now.

"I didn't mean to be rude," she said unhappily.

"Didn't you?" He was all polite surprise.

"I expect I was——" she ventured.

"It all depends on what one's used to," he returned philosophically.

"Yes, I know I was. But you are so horrid to-day."

"Sorry," said Roger stiffly.

She turned to him impulsively.

"Roger—I've missed you awfully since I came back. It was quite absurd, when I'd got Clare all to myself. But I did. It was so nice seeing you. I was simply miserable yesterday, and then you turned up and were perfectly sweet. It cheered me up. And then you turned horrid. All the evening you were horrid. And now you're horrid, quarrelling and arguing. Why can't you be nice to me always?"

She was very close to him. Her hand was on the arm of his chair. Her skirts swished against his knee.

"Alwynne, you're too illogical for a school-marm. Haven't you been bullying me since I came on account of yesterday?"

"Roger," she said unsteadily, "don't tease me. I do so want to be friends with you."

He put his arms about her as she stood beside him, and looked up at her, with laughing, tender eyes.

"And I do so want to marry you. Why not, Miss Le Creevy? Let's be a comfortable couple."

She struggled away from him.

"No, Roger! No. No. I don't want to get married. Why aren't you content to be friends, as we were at Dene? Friendship's a lot. If I can see you very often, and write to you twice a week, and tell you everything—I should be awfully content. Wouldn't you?"

He looked at her with amusement.

"Your idea of friendship is pretty comprehensive. What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?"

"Oh—I don't know."

"What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?"

"How can I get married," cried Alwynne, in sudden exasperation, "when I'm not in love with you? You're silly sometimes, Roger."

"I suppose you're quite sure about it," he ventured cautiously.

"Oh, yes."

He looked utterly unconvinced.

"Why, I've hardly ever even dreamed about you," she remonstrated. "And I know all your faults."

"Oh, you do, do you? Out with the list."

"It would take too long." Alwynne dimpled.

"Love must be blind—is that the idea? Couldn't that be got over? One uses blinkers, you know, in double harness. I never dream, Alwynne, normally. Must I eat lobster salad every night?"

"There—you see!" Alwynne waved her hand complacently. "You're just as bad. You couldn't talk like that if——"

"If what?"

"Nothing!"

"If what?"

Alwynne looked at him.

"If what, Alwynne?" Roger's tone was a little stern.

She had taken a rose from the bowl at her elbow, and was slowly pulling off the petals. Her eyes were on her work.

He waited.

Her hands cupped the little pile of rose-leaves. She buried her face in them—watching him an instant, through her fingers.

"They are very sweet, Roger—are they from home—from Dene, I mean? Smell!"

She held out her hands to him.

He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground.

"If what, Alwynne?" he insisted.

"Oh, Roger! Do you really care—so much?"

"Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much."

Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No—not frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She realised suddenly how immensely she liked him—how entirely his nature satisfied hers.

"Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I wouldn't like to marry you."

His face lit up.

"Would—liking awfully—do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love like a book?"

His face relaxed.

"I shall be content," he said. Then, impetuously, "Alwynne, I'll make you so happy. You shall do—nearly everything—you want to. Alwynne, if you only knew——"

She stopped him hurriedly, pulling away her hands.

"Don't, Roger! Don't! I didn't mean that. I only meant I'd like to. But I can't, of course. Of course, I can't. There's Clare."

"Clare!" His tone abolished Clare.

Alwynne flushed.

"Why do you sneer at Clare? You always sneer. I won't have it."

Her tone, in spite of her sudden anger, was unconsciously and comically proprietary. He repressed a smile as he answered her.

"All right, dear. But I wasn't sneering—not at Clare."

"At me, then?"

"Not sneering—chuckling. My dear, what has Clare—oh, yes, she's your dearest friend—but what has any friend, any woman, got to say to us two? We're going to get married."

"We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? Clare wants me. We've been friends for years."

"Two years!" he interjected contemptuously.

"Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. "Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if—even if——" She stopped suddenly.

He beamed.

"You do. Don't you, darling?" he said.

"I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare."

"Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently.

She faced him angrily.

"Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch—a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other."

"I've never said so or thought so," said Roger.

"You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. That looks as if you thought me loyal and a good friend, doesn't it? What would Clare think of me—when I've let her be sure she can have me always—when I've promised her——"

"At nineteen! Miss Hartill's generous to allow you to sacrifice yourself——"

"It's no sacrifice! Can't you understand that I care for her—awfully. Why—I owe her everything. I was a silly, ignorant schoolgirl, and she took me, and taught me—pictures, books, everything. She made me understand. Of course, I love my dear old Elsbeth—but Clare woke me up, Roger. You don't know how good she's been to me. I owe her—all my mind——"

"And your peace?" he asked significantly.

She softened.

"You know I'm grateful. I don't forget. But she's such a dreadfully lonely person. You've got The Dears, at least. She's queer. She can't help it. She doesn't make friends, though every one adores her. She's only got me. She wants me. How could I go when she wants me—when she's so good to me?"

"Is she?" he said. "Yesterday——"

"I was a fool yesterday," said Alwynne quickly. "Of course, I get on her nerves sometimes. But it's always my fault—honestly. You don't know what she's like, Roger, or you wouldn't say such things. I hate you to misunderstand her. How could I care for her so, if she were what you and Elsbeth think?"

He looked at her innocent, anxious face, and sighed.

"All right, my dear. Stick to your Clare. As long as you're happy, I suppose it's all right. Well, I'd better be off. Where's Elsbeth?"

"Be off? Where?" Alwynne looked startled.

"To pack my traps. I'm going home."

"Oh, Roger, you're not angry with me?"

"I am, rather," he said. "But you needn't mind me. You don't, do you?"

She looked at him piteously.

"Good-bye," he said. He shook hands perfunctorily and turned away.

"You're angry—oh, you are!" cried Alwynne, following him.

He laughed.

"You can't pay Clare without robbing Roger. Don't worry, Alwynne."

"Are you really going?" she said wistfully.

"Yes. Any message?"

"You'll write to me, won't you?"

"Good Lord, no!" said Roger, with immense decision.

Alwynne jumped. It was not the answer she had expected.

"But—but you must write to me," she stammered. "How shall I know about you, if you don't write to me?"

He was silent.

A new idea struck Alwynne.

"D'you mean—you don't want to hear from me either?" she asked incredulously.

"I think it would be better," he said.

"Oh, Roger—why? Aren't you going to be friends?"

Alwynne was looking alarmed.

"I wonder," he began, with elaborate patience, "if you could contrive, without straining yourself, to look at things from my point of view—for a moment—only a moment?"

"That's mean. You make me feel a beast."

"That won't hurt you——"

"Roger!"

"Alwynne?"

"You're being very rude."

"You kick at the privileges of friendship already? I knew you would. Let's drop it, Alwynne. You've got your good lady: you're quite satisfied. I've not got you: I'm not. So the best thing I can do is to go back to Dene and forget about you."

"If you can," said Alwynne's widening, indignant eyes.

"After all," he said meditatively, "you're a dear, but you aren't the only woman in the world, are you?"

"Oh, no," said Alwynne.

"I might go back to America," he said, "for a time. I've heaps of friends out there."

"Oh?" said Alwynne.

"Yes, I shall get over it," he concluded comfortably. "You mustn't worry, my child. Well, good-bye again—wish me good luck, Alwynne."

"Good luck," said Alwynne.

He took up his hat—looked at her—smiled a little, and walked to the door.

But before he could open it, he felt a touch on his arm.

"Roger," said a soft and wheedling voice, "wouldn't you like to write to me? Now and then, Roger?"

He dissented with admirable gravity.

"All right! Don't then!" cried Alwynne wrathfully. She turned her back on him and sat down.

The luncheon-bell tinkled across the ensuing pause, like a peal of puckish laughter.