It was the next day, and quite an ideal one for late September, though that is perhaps the least capricious month of all the year. Still Mrs Poynter hardly knew what to do with her guests. When one has been playing tennis steadily from the 1st of May to the 19th of September, even that best of games begins to pall a little. And people came so early in September—at half-past three some of them, because the daylight faded so soon. It was quite a relief to her when Dicky suggested the houses. But, unfortunately, the suggestion fell flat. Just a few went, but the majority remained.

Mrs. Greatorex, indeed, was too comfortable to stir, and Elfrida was too amused. She had Lord Ambert leaning over her on the left, and she had enticed the curate into an argument on her right. She felt perfectly happy. She was never happier than when she was annoying Ambert, who was to be her husband in a month or so.

As for Mr. Browne, though he had suggested the grapes, he made no movement in their direction. He, too, was quite in his element. He was teasing the children with all his might.

Mrs. Poynter, if she were ever jealous of other people's possessions, at all events had no occasion to be jealous with them about their children. Her own were perfect—little creatures of delight! Their manners, however, were not their strong point.

Vera, the youngest, sat on Mr. Browne's right knee, and Henry on his left. They held a book in their hands. It contained the poems of Dr. Watts. Their mother, who was one of the most thoughtless people in the world, was evidently determined that they should think, with a vengeance.

Dicky could see, however, that the little maiden on his knee hated the book.

"Go on, read us something," said Henry.

"Don't," said Vera, "it's a pig of a book."

"Hold your tongue, Vera," said Henry, whose education was not altogether completed. He nudged Dicky. "Go on," said he, and Dicky began:—

"Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so—-"

"I don't believe it," said Vera, who was on for battle; "God wouldn't."

"Yes, He would. He's made lots of things that fight. Lions and tigers and Pappy."

Captain Poynter was a soldier, and had served with some distinction in the Egyptian War.

"Well I don't want to fight," said Vera, shaking her blonde head. She wriggled down off Dicky's lap, and ran to Agatha, who was close to her, and unfortunately very close to every one else, too. "I want to love peoples. Don't you, Aggie? Do you love peoples, Aggie?"

"I do indeed—lots of peoples," said Agatha, drawing the child on to her knee. "I love you for one."

"Oh, me!" It was plain to the public that Miss Vera thought it would be a poor person indeed who did not bow the knee to her.

"But not all the other peoples?"

"Yes, I love all the other peoples, too."

"That's not true, for mammy says that you're beastly unkind to—-"

"Vera!" cried a shocked mamma.

Mrs. Poynter rose and came forward, but Miss Vera was evidently not afraid of her mammy. She kicked out her pretty silk-clad legs, and went on quite calmly:

"She says you're very nasty to Dr. Darkham, but that you do love Dr. Dillwyn."

The little, sweet, shrill voice carried very far—too far. Mrs. Greatorex looked up.

As for Mrs. Poynter, she was crimson. She was afraid to look at Agatha, who felt as if her heart was going to stop beating. She bent over Vera—who was playing with her bangles, all unconscious of the bombshell she had just discharged—to hide her face. Mrs. Poynter was speaking to the child: "Vera, how naughty! You are a very bold child."

"'Be bolde, be bolde, and everywhere be bolde,'" quoted Mr. Browne promptly. He picked up the small sinner from Agatha's lap and perched her on his shoulder. "I say let's go down and see what they are doing on the courts."

Agatha eagerly rose and went with him. When they had reached the courts the children ran away, and Agatha turned a very distressed face to him.

"Wasn't it unfortunate?" she said. "I am sure Aunt Hilda heard her. Why should the child have said just the wrong thing?"

"Give him a hint. Tell him to be sensible for once in his life, and keep out of her way."

"If I could do that."

"Well, why can't you? When is he coming?"

"He said he would be here at half-past four, and that he"—here she grew prettily shamefaced and very red—"would meet me in the little alley behind the rhododendrons over there. You know there is a gateway in there from the road."

"We've got ten minutes," said Mr. Browne, after a brief consultation with his watch. "Let us go and sit in the alley and circumvent Aunt Hilda."

It was quite easy to skirt around the players and enter the pretty secluded walk that led to nowhere but the high road—a mere cul-de-sac that made it unpopular with most young people. But Agatha liked the high road, for that good white winding ribbon would bring her her Jack.

"Now let us talk about it," said he comfortably.

"There's nothing to talk about," said Agatha mournfully. "Aunt Hilda is determined I shall marry Dr. Darkham, and I am determined that I shan't. That is all."

"Far from it. There is the other side of the question to be considered also," said Mr. Browne, assuming a magisterial air.

"Aunt Hilda is determined that you shan't marry Dr. Dillwyn, and you are determined that you will. What price the winner? I back you."

"Well, I shall not give in," said she with a smile. She looked very sad, however. "I wish I were not under such obligations to her."

"What nonsense! As if she were not under obligations to you! I expect it must have been a real treat to her when you got under her roof."

"Oh no. I have only been a burden."

"Modesty can go too far. I can tell you that the very fact of your having saved her from loneliness repays all your debt to her. Don't be down-hearted about your obligations in that direction."

"Still—-"

"You've got too much conscience," said Mr. Browne. "You're over-ballasted; I'd throw a little overboard if I were you. And I'd keep clear of Darkham, anyway. He's got a nasty turn of jaw."

"He's nasty every way," said Agatha, sighing. "But, then, what am I to do? Aunt Hilda is so angry, and poor Jack is—-"

"Poor! It's a conundrum," said Mr. Browne thoughtfully. "But there must be ways of solving it."

Here he turned and caught sight of something—some one— between the branches of the rhododendrons. Dicky knew him at once. It was the tall young doctor standing at the gate. Why did he not come on? Dicky in a moment guessed that conundrum, at all events. Dillwyn had come there to meet Agatha alone, and was waiting for him to go away. Mr. Browne felt, with a distinct acceleration of spirit, that Dillwyn did not know who Agatha's companion was at the moment. It is sometimes hard to distinguish people through swaying branches.

It was perhaps a little unfortunate that Nature had endowed Dicky at his birth with the spirit of mischief. It is so difficult to strangle Nature's gifts.

"We must wait, I suppose," said Agatha.

Mr. Browne cast a backward glance toward the little gate.

"He must wait anyway," said he sadly.

"We must both wait."

"Oh, not both!"—with a sidelong glance towards the silent figure half seen through the branches. "It is you who are keeping him waiting."

"You are wrong, indeed, Dicky," said the girl earnestly. "We shall wait together. I don't mind that."

"He might, however; especially as you are not together." A slight movement in the hawthorn bush that stood beside the gate emphasised this remark.

"That makes no difference," said Agatha sweetly. "We are content to wait apart."

"Yet Dillwyn doesn't strike me as being a modern Job," said Mr. Browne, who could see Dillwyn marching up and down before the gate in a distinctly impatient style. He had not yet recognised Dicky, and he knew Agatha had by agreement come there to meet him, and was probably doing all in her power to get rid of her troublesome companion. There was a "Will he never go away?" sort of air about him that unhappily amused Dicky.

"I told you you did not understand him—did not sympathise with him," said Agatha reproachfully.

"I do! I do!" Dicky's voice grew tearful. "Waiting for the beloved one is melancholy work; it demands all one's sympathies. I can at this moment,"—here Dicky grew almost tragic—"enter into all his feelings. I feel with him. It may seem painful to you, Agatha, but I assure you I can actually see him as he waits."

"How kind, how good you are, Dicky!"

"But you," said Mr. Browne frantically, "are you good or kind? Is it not cruel of you to keep him waiting as you do?" Again his eye peered through the bushes, and again he saw Dillwyn pacing to and fro.

"But what can I do?"—tearfully.

"Go to him!"—nobly.

"Oh, Dicky! How can I go?"

"My dear girl, the road is open before you."

"That shows," said she, sighing faintly, "how little you know about it. No, we must wait."

"Wait! It's been a good long wait already," said Mr. Browne, who really ought to have been ashamed of himself, "How much longer is it to go on?"

"I don't know," dejectedly.

"Already, I expect, he is beginning to think it a century."

"Poor dear Jack!" said she.

"He's getting jolly tired, you know."

At this Agatha flushed and looked at him. There was indignation in her glance.

"You don't know," said she. "You know nothing at all about it. And he is not getting tired. You shouldn't talk about things of which you know nothing—absolutely nothing."

"Of course you ought to know more about it than I do. I accept the back seat. I am not your other self—that's how he puts it, isn't it? But for all that"—with a stealing glance to the rear —"it seems to me that he is growing impatient."

"Oh, Dicky, I think you shouldn't say such things as that." Tears rose to her eyes.

"What else can I say?"

"To hint that he is impatient—-"

"So he is."

"That sounds as if he were discontented."

"So he is."

"He is not"—angrily.

"Well, my dear girl, when one sees a fellow lifting first one leg and then the other, and craning his neck over a gate until one fears for the vertebrae of it, one naturally does accuse him of impatience."

"He? Who?" Agatha started, and sprang to her feet and looked round.

"Why Dillwyn. I'm certain he feels as if he had been waiting a century. I'll swear that he is growing impatient. He,"—with a gentle wave of his arm towards the gateway—"has been dancing a pas seul there for the last ten minutes!"

Agatha looked at him for a moment only. Then she turned aside.

"I think you might have told me!" said she, her voice quick with anger.

"I might—I might," said Mr. Browne, with truly noble acquiescence. "But you said, dear Agatha, that he was not to be here for ten minutes, and I thought it might be bad for you to see him too soon."

She was not listening to him, however. She had gone towards the gate.

Dicky with a resigned smile lit a cigarette, and started for "fresh fields and pastures new."