After breakfast on the following Friday Allen approached Isobel solemnly.

"May I speak to you for one moment, please, Commandant?" he asked, in portentously official tones.

"Certainly, Mr. Allen," she replied in the same manner. "Come into the office."

She led the way into the not very tidy sanctum from which she conducted the voluminous correspondence with various military bodies which formed a large share in her work in the Dunwater Park Auxiliary Hospital for Officers. She sat down at her desk and stirred some papers with an air of importance.

"You find me very busy," she intimated austerely. "But I can give you a moment. What can I do for you?"

Allen, as befitted one in the presence of authority, came to attention.

"Please," said he humbly, "I want leave to go up to town by the noon train."

"But Sister's the person who runs the leave department."

"Yes, but she's gone up herself by the early train."

"So she has. Well, what's your reason for this dreadful request?"

"I want," said Allen, his eyes twinkling, "to buy myself an engagement ring."

Isobel managed to preserve her severity with an effort.

"Really," she replied; "I don't think that is at all a good reason. The War Office discourages...."

"Very well; then I'll buy you one in the village. I saw a sweet thing in diamonds and sapphires yesterday—only one-and-six."

"Don't forget that it's to-day that Mr. Wentworth's coming to tea. Are you going to desert him?"

"I am. I can't behave in his presence."

"Here's your half-fare voucher, then."

"Thank you, darling."

"Hush! Stop it! Go away—some one might come in. Patients mustn't kiss commandants. It isn't discipline."

"It would be, with some commandants. Well, good luck to the tea-party. And if Wentworth offers any more thousand-pound notes, just remember you've me to support now, and accept."

"I do hope he won't do anything awful," said Isobel anxiously. "I asked him for to-day because I thought there'd be nobody here that mattered, and of course Lady Anderson would take the opportunity to come and look round on that exact day."

"Who's she?"

Isobel sighed.

"She is my Hated Rival," she explained. "That is, I'm hers. She also runs an officers' hospital, and she's coming over to see how I run mine. She disapproves of me altogether—always has—and now she's furiously jealous about the hospital, so we are in for a nice time. She's father's pet aversion, too."

"Thank God I've picked to-day to go to town!" said Allen piously. "I wish you joy of your day."

She smiled mournfully.

"Get back early and comfort me."

* * * * * * *

Alf was not looking forward with pleasure to his afternoon, either. All the morning a sense of the importance of the impending function weighed upon his mind; and as the day wore on the more particular problem of what clothes to wear refused to be either settled or banished.

Immediately after lunch he went to his bedroom and, spreading out his entire wardrobe before him, spent an hour in an agony of indecision. Finally he went to Bill and implored his help.

Bill was heavily occupied with his flagon and his handmaid and at first refused to apply his intellect to the matter at all; but the mere idea of having to solve the insistent sartorial problem unaided drove Alf into desperation. He pleaded and threatened until Bill rose in disgust from his divan and, with Lucy following, went into Alf's room.

"A nursemaid is what you wants, Alf," he said bitterly. "I never see such a blinkin' kid as you in my life. I should have thought you'd have known what's what at your age better'n to 'ave to come runnin' to me about it. 'Owever...."

He sat down on the bed and regarded the wild confusion of clothes with lofty scorn.

"Well," said Alf—his agitation lending a touch of asperity to his tone—"instead of talkin' like that, s'spose you get on with it. What ought I to wear?"

Bill sniffed scornfully.

"Why," he said breezily, "a pot 'at, o' course, and them black things o' yours. You can't go wrong that way."

"I thought you'd say that," answered Alf dejectedly. "I was 'opin' as 'ow a straw 'at might—them black things is that 'ot I can't 'ardly breathe. 'Owever, I s'pose yer right."

He began to sort out his garments of ceremony from the pile before him.

"Don't forget your spats," said Bill. He settled himself more comfortably on the bed. "'Ere, Lucy, my dear, come over 'ere beside me."

"Oh, indeed," said Alf, realizing her presence for the first time. "No, you don't. I don't 'ave no females in my room while I'm dressing."

"Don't trouble yerself about that," replied Bill airily. "Carry on. Lucy won't mind."

Alf stared with strong disapprobation at Lucy, who smiled coyly at him and displayed a large expanse of bare leg.

"No," he agreed in a meaning tone. "Lucy wouldn't mind. I ain't bothering about Lucy, though. It's me as minds. Tell 'er to 'op it at once, Bill Grant, an' think shame of yerself. I dunno what the 'ell's come to yer."

Bill, however unwillingly, was constrained to bow before Alf's outraged modesty, and Lucy accordingly withdrew. Then Alf proceeded to dress himself. A struggle with a stiff and terribly high collar made both Alf himself and his temper exceedingly hot; but at last the operation was over. He placed his glossy topper on his head and displayed himself for his friend's inspection.

Bill looked him over minutely and critically.

"Yes," he said at length. "Yes, you looks all right. Seems to me you wants brightening up some'ow. I know! 'Old on 'arf a mo."

He went out of the room and returned a moment later with something rolled up in his hand.

"This is what you want to brighten yer up," he said confidently. "This'll fair knock 'em."

He unrolled the object in his hand. It was his pictorial waistcoat.

Alf looked askance at it.

"I dunno...." he began feebly.

"Put it on, you blinkin' idjit," said the waistcoat's owner with sudden heat. "Why, it'll make all the difference. Just what you want."

"But perhaps she won't like it," objected the love-sick swain.

"More fool she, if she don't. But she will. I knows what the nobs likes. You trust me."

Alf, reassured and over-persuaded by Bill's tone of easy confidence, put on the gorgeous garment, and then, ready at last, he went downstairs prepared for a very hot and uncomfortable walk to Dunwater. Bill followed; but finding Lucy waiting for her master outside Alf's bedroom door with a full flagon in her hand, he with the faithful damsel disappeared forthwith in the direction of his divan, and was no more seen.

As Alf opened the front door he started back in surprise and swore deeply and inexcusably. The drive was full of brightly colored figures. All his immense retinue seemed to be gathered together waiting for him, their sober garments laid aside and their richest robes put on. Six motionless figures mounted on magnificent and gayly caparisoned black horses formed the center of the group; and a seventh horse, even more gorgeously bedight, was being led up and down by a coal-black groom. Alf's heart sank. Somebody had apparently been wholesale once more.

"Farr!" called Alf sharply.

Mustapha came forward. He was clad in garments so encrusted with gems that they crackled together as he walked. He wore the air of the good and faithful servant about to receive the praise he knows to be well merited.

"What the 'ell's all this about?" demanded his master.

"Lord," replied Mustapha, his face radiating a quiet joy, "I have made all ready. For so great a day it is meet that thou should'st be surrounded with all magnificence, that the father of the maiden may know how great is thy wealth and power. Therefore have I caused to be prepared a concourse of splendor outdoing even that of the great Prince Aladdin at the time of his betrothal to the Princess Badralbudour—upon them be peace. Thus shalt thou shine in beauty as the full moon upon the night of its completion, for verily the like of this gathering hath not been seen upon earth."

"Umph!" said Alf. He reflected that Mustapha seemed very fond of giving himself a great deal of trouble for nothing.

"Furthermore," continued Mustapha serenely, "thy steed awaits thee. For speed and grace he hath not his equal upon earth; black is he as a raven's wing, and of a mettlesome spirit withal."

Alf glanced at the prancing steed. He had only once in his life been on horseback. That had been when he had fallen lame on a route march and had been mounted on Captain Richards' patient and war-weary charger. This horse, however, seemed different. There was more life about it, somehow.

He turned to Mustapha.

"Farr," he said, "you may mean well, but there's times when I thinks you tries to be aggravating. For being a blinkin' fool you 'ave not yer equal on earth. Now you can just wash the 'ole thing out again—see? I don't want no circus processions round me. What d'yer take me for?"

Mustapha bowed low and then, as patiently as though he were explaining to a child, he spoke.

"But, lord, it is thy bodyguard," he remonstrated. "And indeed already have I dispatched before thee a concourse of incredible richness."

"What?" Alf clutched his hat in horror.

"There have gone to the palace of the maiden's father other forty of thy slaves, twenty white and twenty black. Upon his head each black slave beareth a bowl of jewels of surpassing worth, while each white slave as he goes will scatter money amongst the people, that thy popularity may be great in the land. With them are musicians to discourse sweet sounds. Even now they pass the outer gate."

At that moment there came, borne faintly down the breeze, the discordant clash of distant but barbaric music.

"Lumme!" said Alf. He felt wildly for his Button, and, as the whole concourse fell prostrate on its face at sight of the talisman, he called up Eustace and gave him excited but definite orders. The music in the distance stopped suddenly, and at the same time the crowd in the drive (with the exception of the chastened Mustapha) disappeared into thin air. Alf, desperately anxious to get away from the house before any further horrible thing happened, stood not upon the order of his going, but went at once up the drive full of anxiety lest anybody from the village had chanced to be passing the gates at the moment when the band had been so ruthlessly suppressed.

As he turned into the road he saw the massive blue form of P.C. Arthur Jobling, and his heart missed a beat. But the policeman was a pitiable sight. His helmet had fallen off and lay in the road beside his official notebook, and he was gazing from side to side in a horrified and vacant manner, as though he were searching for something and were terrified lest he should find it. Alf was reassured.

"Good afternoon—my man," he said jauntily.

Jobling stared at him.

"G—good afternoon, sir," he gulped. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but do you 'appen to 'ave sent a—a sort o' procession like, with a band, out of 'ere?"

Alf controlled his voice with difficulty, but managed to keep his jaunty tone.

"Do I look like it?" he said.

Jobling groaned.

"I'm goin' barmy!" he muttered. "Look 'ere, sir, as a great favor, like, might I ask yer not to tell 'em in the village what I asked yer?"

"Betcher life!" answered Alf cheerily, much relieved at this unexpected stroke of good fortune. Then, leaving the unfortunate constable to collect his property and what remained to him of his wits, Alf set out for Dunwater, growing at every step more convinced that, whatever clothes might be correct for an afternoon call on a hot day, his present get-up was hopelessly wrong.

As he passed through the village he found himself the object of much interest—of an unmistakably hostile kind. On every side unfriendly faces scowled at him. Knots of people were standing in the street, and as he passed them he heard a confused medley of remarks not openly intended for his ear, but evidently to his address.

"Spy!" said somebody.

"German!" supplemented several others.

"Food 'oarder!"

Finally as he passed the post-office Mrs. Rudd's voice might have been heard through the open door upraised in some denunciation of which Higgins caught only two words:

" ... Scotland Yard...."

Alf was devoutly thankful when at last the village was passed and the road to Dunwater lay before him. As he plodded along the hot road he pondered dully what sinister events those two words "Scotland Yard" might portend. He was worried for a moment; but then his arrival in sight of the Dunwater Park gates drove all worries other than those of etiquette from his mind. What ought he to do when he arrived? What ought he to say? How did one address baronets? He wanted to make a really memorable first impression on Isobel's father—but how? Of course, if he had left himself to be guided by Mustapha's ideas, his first impression would have been only too memorable.

"Pity ole Farr's so bloomin' 'olesale," mused Alf, "because it wasn't 'arf a bad notion me bringing ole FitzPeter a bit of a present, but Farr always plasters it on so bloomin' thick.... But lumme, what's to prevent me?... That's a bit of an idea—never thought o' that. I'll do it."

He glanced cautiously up and down the road. Nobody was in sight. He climbed through the hedge at the roadside and found himself in a little, dark wood.

"Just the place," he said to himself. "Now for Eustace."

Unbuttoning his tightly fitting garments, he fished out the Button and rubbed it....

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, on the lawn at Dunwater Park, strange events had been taking place. A large party was gathered together, but instead of the merry gabble of voices and laughter which characterized the tea-hour as a rule, a solemn silence brooded over the scene. A blight had fallen over the entire gathering. Light-hearted and empty-headed subalterns, whose whole duty in the scheme of things had till now been the outpouring of frothy nonsense, sat mum and miserable. Tea had not yet appeared.

Dominating the scene and acting as a sort of High Priestess of Blight, was a small, gray-haired woman, sitting bolt upright in a basket-chair, and gazing about in an acidulated manner. This was Lady Anderson. She had come over—as Isobel had foreseen—manifestly with the intention of drawing odious comparisons between her own hospital and Isobel's. She had brought with her two dispirited patients—a sapper major and an infantry captain—who were both sitting well on the outskirts of the group. Sir Edward FitzPeter, upon whom Lady Anderson always had an infuriating effect, had joined these two, in order, like them, to be as far away from her ladyship as possible.

A terrible silence fell, which was broken only by a whispered remark from one of the more irrepressible spirits that he was suffering from "septic melancholia."

It hardly seemed humanly possible that one person could, unaided, have reduced this usually lighthearted—not to say boisterous—gathering to such a pitch of gloom. Sister looked as if she might at any moment give up the unequal contest and burst into tears.

Isobel looked round her miserable party and sighed. She had spent a strenuous afternoon with the Wet Blanket, and was weary in body and mind. Lady Anderson had started by inspecting the ground floor arrangements of the Hospital, and had with diabolical ingenuity succeeded in finding or inventing some damning flaw in each; afterwards, it had been the pleasant duty of Isobel and Sister to exhibit the more intimate and important domestic machinery, and give their visitor an opportunity of expressing (under a very thin veil of acid politeness) her disapprobation of their methods here also.

It was a dreary outlook. The only ray of hope that Isobel could see was in the knowledge that the infliction could not last much longer. On her arrival the Wet Blanket had announced that she must leave early, as it appeared she had promised to go and blight somebody else that afternoon. But tea had not yet come; and Isobel began to fear that, if the atmosphere progressed in gloom at its present rate, some of her more nervous patients would be driven to commit suicide in the ornamental pond.

At last, when nobody but Isobel herself had made the slightest attempt to speak for nearly five minutes, Barnby, the butler, appeared with tea, followed by two maids with trays and cake-stands. He was just in time to save his mistress from committing the social solecism of uttering a loud scream. He also furnished Lady Anderson with further material for acid comment.

Fixing her lorgnette (an instrument of torture with which she did dire execution) on her nose, she eyed the approaching procession with pained surprise. Then, turning to Isobel, she informed her:

(1) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to have tea out of doors. Men did not like it. At her hospital tea invariably took place indoors, whatever the weather.

(The two dispirited officers she had brought with her caught one another's eye at this point and exchanged a wan smile.)

(2) That in her opinion it was a fundamental error to run a hospital with servants. Men did not like it. At her hospital all the work was done by V.A.D.'S—so much pleasanter.

(Another wan smile, hardly complimentary to the V.A.D.'s,—was exchanged.)

"But, of course, dear Miss FitzPeter," concluded the lady; "here they have you. How could they ask more than that?"

She left no room for doubt in the minds of her audience that in her private opinion one could ask a great deal more than that. At that moment, any one of the thirty or so people present would cheerfully have drowned or strangled the speaker, but nobody was bold or rash enough to engage her in wordy warfare. Isobel, heroically preserving a dogged society smile, was devoutly thankful that Denis was not there to do battle for her. He would only have made matters infinitely worse. As it was she was anxious about Sir Edward, who was fidgeting on his chair, obviously only prevented from an explosion by his sense of duty as host.

Fortunately a diversion occurred in the shape of the vicar and his wife, and Isobel breathed an audible sigh of relief. She had little love for Mrs. Davies, but on this occasion there was nobody whom she would more gladly have seen, for she knew that the task of entertaining Lady Anderson would now be transferred to other and enthusiastic hands. Mrs. Davies had for Lady Anderson a passionate regard almost amounting to adulation—a regard which the cantankerous old dame made no attempt to reciprocate. This fact failed utterly to dash Mrs. Davies; snubs and slights slid off her back like butter from a hot stove, and she continued on every possible occasion to absorb large quantities of blacking from Lady Anderson's shoes with every appearance of delight.

On seeing the little, black-clad figure now she rushed forward, hardly noticing Isobel at all in her eagerness.

"Dear Lady Anderson," she cooed. "How perfectly delightful to see you and how sweet you look."

Here one of the patients, a callow second-lieutenant with an imperfect command of feature, guffawed, and had hastily to simulate a painful cough. Mrs. Davies' choice of epithet was certainly unfortunate, and Lady Anderson herself appeared to feel this, for she was more than ordinarily brusque in her manner.

"Umph!" she said. "Sit down, do."

Mrs. Davies obeyed with alacrity and proceeded to take entire possession of her idol, sitting very far forward on her chair, bending her body to a servile curve and prefacing every remark with "Dear Lady Anderson." This treatment appeared to agree with the lady, for she ceased for the time being to terrorize the assembled company and allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation in which, while not going to the length of being amiable, she did at least refrain from being actively objectionable. Gradually the gloom cleared, until something like the usual cheery babble was to be heard.

Over her cup of tea Lady Anderson thawed yet more. A sour smile appeared on her face.

"Well," she said to the vicar's wife, "and what's the latest bit of gossip in Denmore?"

Mrs. Davies looked pained.

"Dear Lady Anderson," she gushed reproachfully, "you will have your little joke! You know how I hate gossip of all kinds."

"Yes," said the old lady dryly, "I know."

"But there is one thing about which I think everybody ought to be told. The Vicar and I have kept silence until now, because—er—because the time was not ripe."

Isobel leant forward with interest. At last the meaning of the parson's mysterious visit of the other day was to be cleared up.

"I refer," continued Mrs. Davies firmly, "to...."

Exactly as she had done on the previous occasion, the speaker stopped suddenly in the middle of her sentence as though an invisible hand had been clapped over her mouth.

They waited for a space in suspense.

"Well?" said Lady Anderson at last.

"I refer," began Mrs. Davies once more, uneasily, "to...."

Dead silence again. Lady Anderson showed signs of losing her temper, never her securest possession at the best of times. The prospect of incurring the great lady's wrath impelled Mrs. Davies to struggle with the mysterious ban that seemed to be laid upon her speech. Three more attempts to explain herself did she make; and when the last of these had failed a kind of hysteria seemed to seize Mrs. Davies. She mouthed impotently, gasping like a fish, but no sound came forth. Lady Anderson stared at her in malevolent amazement, while a monstrous suspicion grew in her mind.

"Are you ill?" she said sharply. It is hard to explain exactly how she succeeded in making these words, in themselves innocuous, convey an insinuation of insobriety; but the fact remains that it was clear to Isobel and Sister (who fortunately were the only spectators of the scene, the rest having all unostentatiously edged away from Lady Anderson's sphere of influence) that no other meaning could have been intended. Indeed, it penetrated even the bemused brain of Mrs. Davies herself, and completed her demoralization.

She stretched out a shaking hand.

"Dear Lady Anderson," she began.

"Don't touch me," snapped that lady, at last losing all control of her rising temper. "I will be charitable, Mrs. Davies, and suppose that you have got a touch of sunstroke; but in any case I will not remain here to be made a fool of. Good afternoon, Miss FitzPeter."

"Oh, must you really go?" murmured Isobel, with a feeling that it was too good to be true, and taking care not to allow enough warmth to creep into her voice to give Lady Anderson any excuse for changing her mind. Sir Edward bustled forward to perform the highly congenial duty of seeing the Wet Blanket off the premises; but she declined his aid and went off in a raging passion, her two cowed and apprehensive patients following at her heels.

Meanwhile the Vicar, who had mixed with the crowd and had been happily engaged in discussing cricket with four or five other enthusiasts, became aware of his wife's voice calling hysterically for him.

"Julian! Julian! Take me home. Where's my husband?"

"Here, my dear," he said, blundering across chairs and tripping over feet in his haste. "What is it?"

"Take me home!"

"But...."

"It's all right, Mr. Davies," said the quiet voice of Sister in his ear. "Your wife has been a little upset by Lady Anderson, and I think she'll feel better at home."

"Dear, dear!" the Vicar muttered in distress. "How unfortunate!"

He knew that life would be difficult for him if Lady Anderson had really removed the light of her countenance from his wife, and he sighed as he took her arm and helped her away. She was trembling violently and her nerves seemed to have failed her altogether for the time being.

"Oh dear!" said Isobel, sinking back into her chair and watching the two receding figures. "What a day! Poor Mrs. Davies will never live this down, I'm afraid! What's going to happen next, I wonder."

She was not allowed to wonder long. As the Davies family reached the angle of the house, Barnby appeared; behind him came Alf, perspiring freely with sheer fright; and behind him again came two enormous and imperturbable negroes, dressed in robes of shimmering cloth of silver, and bearing each on his head an enormous chased bowl of gold.

The effect of the little cortÈge on Mrs. Davies was remarkable. She uttered a loud scream, tore herself free from her husband and shot round the corner at a run. The Vicar, who had lost his glasses owing to the violence of his wife's departure, groped wildly for them and then disappeared in pursuit.

"I believe they really are mad," said Isobel in an undertone to Sister. Then she came forward once more to greet her new visitor. But Sir Edward was before her.

"How do you do!" he said heartily. "I needn't ask if you are Mr. Wentworth—your escort gives you away! I suppose my daughter told you I was interested in things oriental. How good of you to think of bringing these fellows for me to see!"

He trotted up to the negroes, who executed a wonderful simultaneous salaam, after which, rising on to one knee, they held out their bowls towards him. It was beautifully done; the tea-party, who had quite forgotten the gloom of the earlier proceedings, and were watching with all their eyes, felt that they ought to applaud. Sir Edward was delighted.

"Magnificent!" he said. "And what wonderful bowls! I'd no idea anything so fine survived."

He lifted one bowl with an effort and examined the chasing.

"Marvelous!" he whispered.

Alf, whose former shyness and apprehension had been dispelled like a cloud of smoke in a strong wind by his kindly reception, made his first remark.

"They're for you, sir," he said. "A present."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow, I couldn't possibly...."

But Alf was dismissing his two servitors. They understood his gestures, and went. Sir Edward determined to leave the question of the bowls until later. The collector's greed was in his heart, and perhaps if the fellow was as rich as he seemed he'd never miss them.... Ruminating, he followed Alf to the tea-table, where Isobel was already filling a cup.

Mr. Wentworth, now quite at his ease, showed a strong desire to sit by his hostess; but she was still too worn out in mind to cope with another visitor. She introduced him, therefore, to one or two of the officers about her and delivered him over to them.

Alf was already—owing to the mystery which enveloped him—a local celebrity; and now he found himself a popular hero. He was borne off round the grounds by a small crowd of half-admiring, half-amused young officers, who extracted a great deal of enjoyment from him while contriving not to hurt his feelings. He found himself on terms with them such as he could never have dreamed possible in the days when he had been a mere private with a conviction that the less he had to do with the commissioned ranks the better for all classes. He was encouraged to call captains by their simple surnames and to venture on familiarities with subalterns; and he played a game of extraordinarily bad billiards which (more to his own astonishment than his opponents') he won.

When at last he returned to retrieve his top-hat and to take his leave, he was jubilant. In the past he had been diffident; but gradually his confidence in himself and his new powers had grown, until now he was triumphantly sure of himself. Nothing, he felt, could stand in the way of such a man as he had shown himself to be. Immense riches, in themselves, need lead a man nowhere; but immense riches combined with social success—who could resist them? He had been accepted by these people as an equal and a friend; from that to being accepted by Isobel as a lover seemed to his excited brain only a step.

In the veranda stood Isobel herself, talking to her father and another man. With a slight throb of misgiving Alf recognized Lieutenant Allen. In his usual diffident frame of mind, he would have avoided an unnecessary meeting with his old platoon-commander; but now, intoxicated as he was by success, he greeted a spice of risk. He approached the group. Both Isobel and Allen looked excited—Alf had never seen his lady look so desirable, or felt her so approachable.

"'Ow do, Allen?" he said with such an air of jaunty familiarity that the others stared at him in sheer surprise. "Pleased to see you again, I'm sure. Well, I ought to be toddlin' off. Never 'ad such a time since I don't know when. But you'll be sure an' bring Miss Is—Miss FitzPeter round an' 'ave a bit o' something to eat an' a look round the 'ouse, won't you, sir? 'Ow about to-morrow?"

Sir Edward, still overflowing with loving kindness towards his neighbor, and having decided that, come what might, he must keep the bowls, beamed on him.

"Don't go, Mr. Wentworth," he said.

His daughter looked up sharply and shook her head; Mr. Wentworth was all very well in his way, but she wanted him on her hands no longer, now that Denis had returned. But her father did not notice her little pantomime and blundered genially on.

"Those boys have monopolized you so that I've seen nothing of you. Stay to dinner, won't you, and afterward—if you'd be so kind—I'll get your expert opinion on a small article I'm writing on Eastern dress and architecture."

In his joy at the first part of this invitation, Alf hardly listened to the second; but his sense of propriety intervened for a moment.

"But I didn't ought ... these clothes...." he began.

"Oh, never mind. You'll do splendidly as you are, eh, Iso?"

Thus appealed to, Isobel had only one course open to her.

"Do stay, Mr. Wentworth," she said perfunctorily.

"Delighted, I'm sure," said Alf gallantly. His heart glowed. Here was a wonderful opportunity. If only he could get rid of Allen, and make some real impression on Isobel ... how could he get rid of Allen ...?

This question occupied him as he went with them to explore a tangled wilderness in a part of the garden he had not yet seen. If only he could tip the wink to Isobel, it ought to be easy for them to slip away from the intrusive Allen ... could he?

He suddenly found, with some perturbation, that he was alone. He had been busy with his thoughts and had not noticed which way the others had gone. He hunted for a time—and fell into the arms of a group of exuberant youths who insisted on bearing him off to learn clock-golf.

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, Denis and Isobel, panting from their sudden and inexcusable dash through the tangled undergrowth, had reached a sequestered retreat known as the Dutch garden. Allen drew from his pocket a small parcel.

"I thought we'd never get rid of the fellow," he said. "I've got it, darling—a little beauty. Let's see if it fits."