Mr. Vansittart Merceron was not quite sure that Victor Sutton had any business to call him “Merceron.” He was nearly twenty years older than Victor, and a man of considerable position; nor was he, as some middle-aged men are, flattered by the implication of contemporaneousness carried by the mode of address. But it is hard to give a hint to a man who has no inkling that there is room for one; and when Mr. Vansittart addressed Victor as ‘Mr. Sutton’ the latter graciously told him to “hang the Mister.” Reciprocity was inevitable, and the elder man asked himself, with a sardonic grin, how soon he would be “Van.”

“Coming to bathe, Merceron?” he heard under his window at eight o’clock the next morning. “We’re off to the Pool.”

Mr. Vansittart shouted an emphatic negative, and the two young fellows started off by themselves. Charlie’s manner was affected by the ceremonious courtesy which a well-bred host betrays towards a guest not very well-beloved, but Victor did not notice this. It seldom occurred to him that people did not like him.

“Yes,” he was saying, “I’m just twenty-nine. I’ve had my fling, Charlie, and now I shall get to business.”

Charlie was relieved to find that according to this reckoning he had several more years ‘fling’ before him.

“Next year,” pursued Victor, “I shall marry; then I shall go into Parliament, and then I shall go ahead.”

“I didn’t know you were engaged.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m going to be. I can please myself, you see; I’ve got lots of coin.”

“Oh, yes, but can you please the lady?” asked Charlie.

“My dear boy,” began Victor, “when you’ve seen a little more of the world——

“Here we are,” said Charlie. “Why, hullo! Who’s that?”

A dripping head and a blowing mouth were visible in the middle of the Pool.

“Willie Prime by Jove! ‘Morning Willie;” and Charlie set about flinging off his flannels, Victor following his example in a more leisurely fashion.

Willie Prime was a little puzzled to know how he ought to treat Charlie. ‘Charlie’ he had been in very old days—then Master Charlie (that was Willie’s mother’s doing)—then Mr. Charles. But now Willie had set up for himself. He had played billiards with a lord, and football against the Sybarites, and, incidentally, hobnobbed with quite great people. It is not very easy to assert a social position when one has nothing on, and only one’s head out of water, but Willie did it.

“Good-morning—er—Merceron,” said he.

Victor heard him, and put up his eyeglass in amazement; but he, in his turn, had only a shirt on, and the hauteur was a failure. Charlie utterly failed to notice the incident.

“Is it cold?” he shouted.

“Beastly,” answered Willie. The man who has got in always tells the man who is going to get in that it is “beastly cold.”

“Here goes!” cried Charlie; and a minute later he was treading water by Willie’s side.

“Miss Wallace all fit?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes, she’s all right.”

“And her friend?”

“All right, I believe.”

“And when is it to be, old fellow?”

“Soon as I get a rise.”

“What?” asked the unsophisticated Charlie, who knew the phrase chiefly in connection with fish.

“A rise of screw, you know.”

“Oh, ah, yes—what a fool I am!” and Charlie disappeared beneath the waves.

When they were all on the bank, drying, Willie, encouraged by not being discouraged (save by Sutton’s silence) in his advances, ventured further, and asked in a joking tone:

“And aren’t you marked off yet? We’ve been expecting to hear of it for the last twelve months.”

“What do you mean’?”

“Why, you and Miss Bushell.”

Charlie struggled through his shirt, and then answered, with his first touch of distance:

“Nothing in it. People’ve got no business to gossip.”

“It’s damned impertinent,” observed Victor Sutton in slow and deliberate tones.

Willie flushed.

“I beg pardon,” he said gruffly. “I only repeated what I heard.”

“My dear fellow, no harm’s done,” cried Charlie. “Who was the fool?”

“Well—in fact—my father.”

The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck Charlie.

“I say, did your father state it as a fact?”

“Oh no; but as a certainty, you know.”

“When?”

“Last night at supper.”

Charlie’s brow clouded. Miss B—that is, Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening—that one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste’s business), and that would not have pleased Charlie.

It was all very well for Charlie to count on that blessed evening; but he reckoned without his host—or rather without his guests.

The Bushells came to lunch, Millie driving her terrified mother in a lofty gig; and at lunch Millie recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron. She did not believe it, of course; but it was queer, wasn’t it? Victor Sutton rose to the bait at once.

“We’ll investigate it,” he cried. “Merceron,” (he meant the patient Mr. Vansittart), “didn’t yon once write an article on ‘Apparitions’ for Intellect?”

“Yes, I proved there were none,” answered Mr. Vansittart.

“That’s impossible, you know,” remarked Mrs. Marland gently.

“We’ll put you to the proof this very evening,” declared Mr. Sutton.

Charlie started.

“Are you game, Miss Bushell?” continued Victor.

“Ye—yes, if you’ll keep quite near me, answered Millie, with a playful shudder. Charlie reflected how ill playfulness became her, and frowned. But Millie was pleased to see him frown; she enjoyed showing him that other men liked to keep quite near to her.

“Then this evening we’ll go in a body to the Pool.”

“I shall not go,” shuddered Mrs. Marland.

“An hour after sunset!”

“Half an hour. She might be early—and we’ll stay half an hour after. We’ll give her a fair show.”

“Come,” thought Charlie. “I shall get an hour with Agatha.”

“You’ll come, Charlie?” asked Victor.

“Oh, all right,” he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at him?

The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amusements. Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his racquet.

“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Marland.

“Charlie, dear,” called Lady Merceron, who had been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the shade, “come and hand the tea. I’m sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!”

“She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs. Bushell.

“Take care of your stom—your health—and your complexion will take care of itself,” observed Mr. Vansittart.

“Charlie! Where; is the boy?” called Lady Merceron again.

The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few wretched minutes—hardly enough to say good-by once—before he must hustle—yes, positively hustle—Agatha out of sight. He had heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly after tea.

He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people—a. young man with his arm round a young woman’s waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, “by all that’s damnable!” as Sir Peter says! Charlie said something quite as forcible.

He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha? Five minutes passed in vacillation.

“I’ll go and stop her,” he said, and began a cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie’s voice.

“Well, my dear, let’s be off,” said Willie.

Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts.

“I’m ready, Willie. It’s been beautiful, hasn’t it?”

They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank.

“We must make haste,” said Willie. “Father’ll want his tea.”

If they made haste they would be close on his heels. Charlie shrank back behind a willow and let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to his canoe and paddled across—up the steps and into the temple he rushed. She wasn’t there! Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. Charlie sat down and, stretching out his legs, stared gloomily at his toes.

Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when a head was put round the Corinthian pilaster of the doorway.

“Poor boy! Am I very late?”

Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurting out joy tempered by uneasiness.

Agatha gathered the difficulty of the position.

“Well,” said she, smiling, “I must disappear, and you must go back to your friends.”

“No,” said Charlie. “I must talk to you.”

“But they may come any moment.”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh, but I do. Charlie, what’s the matter? Oh, didn’t I ever call you Charlie’ before? Well, Charlie, if you love me (yes, I know!) you’ll not let these people see me.”

“All right! Come along. I’ll take you to the road and come back. Hullo! What’s that?”

“It’s them!” exclaimed the lady.

It was. The pair dived back into the temple. On the opposite bank stood Millie Bushell, Mr. Vansittart, and Victor Sutton.

“Hullo, there, Charlie, you thief!” cried Victor. “Bring that canoe over here. Miss Bushell wants to get to the temple.”

“Hush! Don’t move!” whispered Agatha.

“But they know I’m here; they see that confounded canoe.”

“Charlie! Charlie!” was shouted across in three voices.

“What the devil—,” muttered Charlie.

“They mustn’t see me,” urged Agatha.

Victor Sutton’s voice rose clear and distinct,

“I’ll unearth him!” he cried. “I know the way round. You wait here with Miss Bushell, Merceron.”

“Oh, he’s coming round!”

“I must chance it,” said Charlie, and he came out of hiding. A cry greeted him. Victor was already started, but stopped. Charlie embarked and shot across.

“You villain! You gave us the slip,” cried Uncle Van.

Miss Bushell began quietly to embark. Uncle Van followed her example.

“Oh, Mr. Merceron, you’ll sink us!” cried Millie.

Charlie sat glum and silent. The situation beat him completely.

Uncle Van drew back. Millie seized the paddle and propelled the canoe out from the bank.

“You come round with me, Merceron,” called Sutton, and the two men turned to the path. “No,” added Victor. “Look here, we can climb round here,” and he pointed to the bank. There was a little narrow muddy track, but it was enough.

The canoe was half-way across; the two men—Victor leading at a good pace—were half-way round. Charlie glanced at the window of the temple and caught a fleeting glance of a despairing face. “If you love me, they mustn’t see me!”

“Here, give me the paddle!” he exclaimed, and reached forward for it.

“No, I can do it,” answered Millie, lifting the instrument out of his reach.

Charlie stepped forward—rather, he jumped forward, as a man jumps over a ditch. There was a shriek from Millie; the canoe swayed, tottered, and upset. In a confused mass, Millie Bushell and Charlie were hurled into the water. Victor and Uncle Van, hardly five yards from the steps, turned in amazement.

“Help! help!” screamed Millie.

“Help!” echoed Charlie. “I can’t hold her up. Victor, come and help me! Uncle Van, come along!”

“The devil!” murmured Uncle Van,

“Quick, quick!” called Charlie; and Victor, with a vexed laugh, peeled off his coat and jumped in. Mr. Vansittart stood with a puzzled air. Then a happy thought struck him. He turned and trotted back the way he had come. He would get a rope!

As he went, as Victor reached the stragglers in the water, a slim figure in white, with a smile on her face, stole cautiously from the temple and disappeared in the wood behind. Charlie saw her go, but he held poor Millie’s head remorselessly tight towards the other bank.

And that was the last he saw of the Lady of the Pool.

Millie Bushell landed, her dripping clothes clinging round her. Victor was shivering, for the evening had turned chilly. Uncle Van had a bit of rope from the boat-shed in his hand, and a doubtful smile on his face.

“We’d best get Miss Bushel home,” he suggested, and they started in gloomy procession. Charlie, in remorse, gave Millie his arm.

“Oh, how could you?” she murmured piteously. She was cold, she was wet, and she was sure that she looked frightful.

I—I didn’t do it on purpose, “Charlie blurted out eagerly.

“On purpose! Well, I suppose not,” she exclaimed, bewildered. Charlie flushed. Victor shot a swift glance at him.

Half-way home they met Mrs. Marland and the whole affair had to be explained to her. Charlie essayed the task.

“Still, I don’t see how you managed to upset the canoe,” observed Mrs. Marland.

“No more do I,” said Victor Sutton. Charlie gave it up.

“I’m so sorry, Millie,” he whispered. “You must try to forgive me.”

So, once again, the coast was left clear for Agatha Merceron, if she came that night. But, whether she did or not, the other Agatha came no more, and Charlie’s great resolve went unfulfilled. Yet the next evening he went: alone to the temple, and he found, lying on the floor, a little handkerchief trimmed with lace and embroidered with the name of “Agatha.” This he put in his pocket, thanking heaven that his desperate manoeuvre had kept the shrine inviolate the day before.

“Poor Millie!” said he. “But then I had to do it.”

“I hear,” remarked Lady Merceron a few days later, “that one of Mr. Prime’s friends has left him—not Willie’s young lady—the other.”

“Has she?” asked Charlie.

No one pursued the subject, and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Marland, who was sitting next to Charlie, asked him in a low voice whether he had been to the Pool that evening—.

“No,” answered Charlie. “I don’t go every night.”

“Oh, poor dear Miss Bushell!” laughed Mrs. Marland; and, when Charlie looked inquiringly at her, she shook her head.

“You see, I know something of young men,” she explained.