They were bathed. And as a fact it took Agatha and Jack Dillwyn quite an hour to get back to the others. The first two they met were Elfrida and Mr. Blount sitting tÊte-À-tÊte on an innocent garden-chair.

It struck Agatha as a little peculiar that Elfrida, who usually hailed her appearance with rapture, now let her go by with the kindliest, the friendliest of nods. The thought struck her that Elfrida, knew that she loved Jack, and would for that reason not detain her, but afterwards it came to her that she merely wanted to be alone with Mr. Blount.

But Elfrida was superior to criticism. As Agatha went by she turned to her companion.

"I do love Agatha. Don't you?"

"I like her," said the curate.

"Oh, that!—one likes so many. Why don't you love her?"

"Because I can only love one," said he.

"It would be indiscreet, of course, to ask about the 'one,'" said she. "No one, not even a stupid person like me, could go so far as that."

Blount by this time had recovered himself. He showed her quite a brave front. He was the saddest man on earth at that moment, I believe, yet he told himself he would die rather than let her know it.

"Your life!" said he. "Surely it is more valuable than all that comes to. A question addressed to me by you could hardly endanger your existence."

Perhaps she was a little chagrined at this sudden strength—at his calm taking of her question. Certainly her face changed.

"How can I tell?" said she petulantly. "One never knows what one's life is worth." She turned aside and stood with a frowning brow, as if thinking. Suddenly she turned to him again. The frown had gone. The smile was back again. The coquette was once more herself.

"What is your life worth?" asked she. Her face was radiant now; her eyes were fixed on his; her little slender figure seemed quite filled anew with hopeless frivolity.

"Nothing!" said Blount. He spoke the word quite evenly—with a smile, indeed; but in spite of his effort a terrible sadness underlay and dominated his intonation. What was life without love? And love was a thing the Fates refused him. Whom could he love, indeed, having once seen her?

To-day she seemed sweeter than ever to him—now when he knew that she was pledged to Ambert.

And in truth there was great character in the small face; great gaiety, too, some humour, an immense wilfulness, and, alas! too much ambition.

"Ah! you underrate yourself," said she. She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "Every one's life is worth something. And one should prove it. That is the principal thing—to prove one's life worth something."

"How are you going to prove yours worthy?" Blount asked this question slowly, deliberately. She flushed crimson.

"Oh! To be rude is not to be argumentative," said she, and turned abruptly away from him, and crossed to where Mrs. Poynter stood, surrounded by a bevy of friends.

Blount stood still. He did not attempt to follow her. Why should he?

Every one was saying good-bye now; Mrs. Greatorex had beamed her sweetest on Mrs. Poynter, and had accepted Dr. Darkham's arm to the fly. How Agatha hated that fly! It was full of nothing but lectures, and scandals, and frowns—if one left out the moths and the must.

The poor child felt now there was electricity in the air, as, avoiding Darkham's hand, she sprang into the dingy vehicle, and seated herself beside Mrs. Greatorex. She had been quite aware that Dr. Darkham had spent the last half-hour with Mrs. Greatorex, and she felt certain that a catalogue of all her crimes during last night had been played upon her aunt's mind, with variations.

She sat looking as usual as possible until the entrance gate was passed, and then, by a sudden movement of Mrs. Greatorex's figure, she knew that wrath was about to descend upon her.

"What am I to understand by this, Agatha?"

"By what, Aunt Hilda?" It was the old way of gaining time.

"You heard that child, I presume. Such an exposÉ. All children are odious, but that child of Mrs. Poynter's—However, I have nothing to do with her. It is with you, Agatha, I have to do. Am I to understand that you are determined to take your own way— to try your will against mine?"

"Why should you talk to me like that?" cried the girl with great agitation. "Do I not know what you have done for me—how you have saved me from starvation? But, Aunt Hilda, what can I do? Would you have me marry a man I hate?"

"A man, however, whom you will marry," said Mrs. Greatorex with cold decision. "The marriage is arranged, Agatha. Dr. Darkham and I have been talking it over, and we have arranged that the marriage is to take place next April."

"The marriage will never take place," said Agatha.

"You are a mere child, and do not know what is good for you," said Mrs. Greatorex. "You have insane fancies that can never come to anything. I really believe you think yourself in love with that young man whom Reginald Greatorex has foisted on us, and who has not so much as done you the honour to ask you in marriage."

"You are wrong there," said Agatha, in a low tone, but such a triumphant one. "Dr. Dillwyn has asked me to marry him."

"He has!" Mrs. Greatorex turned upon her, her light brown eyes flashing. "And you never told me. Is this your return to me for all my goodness?"

"How could I speak?" Agatha was white to her lips. "How could I? You would have been so angry—you would not listen—you—-"

She would have tried to go on and explain, but Mrs. Greatorex broke into her disjointed, terrified speech in a sort of fury.

"So it is true, then? I didn't believe it of you. But Dr. Darkham told me of your disgraceful conduct last night. That you so far forgot yourself as to receive him, alone in the arbour, up to half-past eight without a soul near you?"

"He did not know your were to be away at first. It was I who told him. He wanted to see you very much."

"And I want to see him very much." Her voice struck cold to the girl's heart. "I am so desirous of seeing him that I have sent a note to him"—she frowned, her brow darkened—"commanding his presence at my house to-morrow at twelve o'clock, to inquire into his flirtation with my niece."

"I hope you have not done that," said the girl, turning very pale.

"Certainly, I have done it. And I wish you to be in, Agatha, at that time."

"I shall be in," said Agatha. "But to summon him like that—to insult him—in my presence." Her voice was unsteady, she was trembling. "It will do no good!" said she despairingly.

"I think it will. At all events I shall try it. This silly intrigue must be brought to an end at once, and after that you shall marry Dr. Darkham."

"I shall not do that, Aunt Hilda," said Agatha, in a low but determined voice.