Under a yew tree, overlooking a wide lawn, bordered on the farther side by a bank of flowers, three people are sitting clustered around a tea-table.

One of them is a little old lady, the dearest old lady imaginable. By her side, in a low basket chair, a girl is half sitting, half reclining. Her small figure, clad in a simple black frock, gives the impression of extreme youth, which impression is heightened by the fact that her curly, yellow hair, reaching barely to the nape of her neck, is caught together by a black ribbon like a schoolgirl's. But when one looks more closely into her pale face, one realises somehow that she is a woman and a woman who has suffered—who still suffers.

On the ground facing the younger woman a red-headed young man in white flannels is squatting tailor-fashion. He is holding out an empty cup to be refilled.

"Not another!" exclaims the little old lady in a horrified tone. "Why, you have had three already!"

"My dear Trevie, let me inform you once and for all that I have abandoned my figure. Why should I persist in the struggle now that Anita refuses to smile on me? When one's heart is broken, one had better make the most of the few pleasures one can still enjoy. So another cup, please."

Anita took no notice of his sally; her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon; she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.

"By the way," remarked Campbell casually as he sipped his tea, "I spent last Sunday at Geralton." He watched Anita furtively. A faint flutter of the eyelids was the only indication she gave of having heard him, yet Guy was convinced that she was waiting breathlessly for him to continue.

"How is Lord Wilmersley?" asked Miss Trevor with kindly indifference.

"Very well indeed. He is doing a lot to the castle. You would hardly know it—the interior, I mean." Although he had pointedly addressed Anita, she made no comment. It was only after a long silence that she finally spoke.

"And how is Valdriguez?" she inquired.

"Much the same. She plays all day long with the dolls Cyril bought for her. She seems quite happy."

Again they relapsed into silence.

Miss Trevor took up her knitting, which had been lying in her lap, and was soon busy avoiding the pitfalls a heel presents to the unwary.

"I think I will go for a walk," said Anita, rising slowly from her seat. There was a hint of exasperation in her voice which escaped neither of her hearers.

Miss Trevor peered anxiously over her spectacles at the retreating figure.

Campbell's rubicund countenance had grown strangely grave.

"No better?" he asked as soon as Anita was out of earshot.

Miss Trevor shook her head disconsolately.

"Worse, I think. I can't imagine what can be the matter with her. She seemed at one time to have recovered from her terrible experience. But now, as you can see for yourself, she is absolutely wretched. She takes no interest in anything. She hardly eats enough to keep a bird alive. If she goes on like this much longer, she will fret herself into her grave. Yet whenever I question her, she assures me that she is all right. I really don't know what I ought to do."

"Has it never occurred to you that she may be wondering why Wilmersley has never written to her, nor been to see her?"

"Lord Wilmersley? Why—no. She hardly ever mentions him."

"She never mentions him," corrected Guy. "She inquires after everybody at Geralton except Cyril. Doesn't that strike you as very suspicious?"

"Oh, you don't mean that——"

He nodded.

"But she hardly knows him! You told me yourself that she had only seen him three or four times."

"True, but you must remember that they met under very romantic conditions. And Cyril is the sort of chap who would be likely to appeal to a girl's imagination."

"Lady Wilmersley in love! I can't believe it!" exclaimed Miss Trevor.

"I wish I didn't," muttered Guy under his breath.

She heard him, however, and laid her small, wrinkled hand tenderly on his shoulder.

"My poor boy, I guessed your trouble long ago."

"Don't pity me! It doesn't hurt any longer—not much at least. When one realises a thing is quite hopeless, one somehow ends by adjusting oneself to the inevitable. What I feel for her now is more worship than love. I want above all things that she should be happy, and if Cyril can make her so, I would gladly speed his wooing."

"Do you think he has any thought of her?"

"I am sure he loves her."

"Then why has he given no sign of life all these months?"

"I fancy he is waiting for the year of their mourning to elapse. But I confess that I am surprised that he has been able to restrain his impatience as long as this. Every day I have expected—"

"By Jove!" cried Campbell, springing to his feet, "there he is now!"

Miss Trevor turned and saw a tall figure emerge from the house.

Being plunged suddenly into the midst of romance, together with the unexpected and dramatic arrival of the hero, was too much for the little lady's composure. Her bag, her knitting, her glasses fell to the ground unheeded as she rose hurriedly to receive Lord Wilmersley.

"So glad to see you! Let me give you a cup of tea, or would you prefer some whiskey and soda?" She was so flustered that she hardly knew what she was saying.

"Thanks, I won't take anything. Hello, Guy! You here? Rather fancied I might run across you."

Cyril's eyes strayed anxiously hither and thither.

"Looking for Anita, are you?" asked Guy.

"I?" Cyril gave a start of guilty surprise. "Yes, I was wondering where she was." His tone was excessively casual.

"Humph!" grunted Campbell contemptuously.

"She has gone for a little walk, but as she never leaves the grounds, she can't be very far off," said Miss Trevor.

"Perhaps—" Cyril hesitated; he was painfully embarrassed.

Guy came to his rescue.

"Come along," he said. "I will show you where you are likely to find her."

"Thanks! I did rather want to see her—ahem, on business!"

"On business? Oh, you old humbug!" jeered Campbell as he sauntered off.

For a moment Cyril glared at Guy's back indignantly; then mumbling an apology to Miss Trevor, he hastened after him.

They had gone only a short distance before they espied a small, black-robed figure coming towards them. Guy stopped short; he glanced at Cyril, but the latter was no longer conscious of his presence. Without a word he turned and hurriedly retraced his footsteps.

"Well, Trevie," he said, "I must be going. Can't loaf forever, worse luck!" His manner was quite ostentatiously cheerful.

Miss Trevor, however, was not deceived by it. "You are a dear, courageous boy," she murmured.

With a flourish of his hat that seemed to repudiate all sympathy, Guy turned on his heel and marched gallantly away.

Meanwhile, in another part of the garden, a very different scene was being enacted.

On catching sight of each other Cyril and Anita had both halted simultaneously. Cyril's heart pounded so violently that he could hardly hear himself think.

"I must be calm," he said to himself. "I must be calm! But how beautiful she is! If I only had a little more time to collect my wits! I know I shall make an ass of myself!"

As these thoughts went racing through his brain, he had been moving almost automatically forward. Already he could distinguish the soft curve of her parted lips and the colour of her dilated eyes.

A sudden panic seized him. He was conscious of a wild desire to fly from her presence; but it was too late. He was face to face with her.

For a moment neither moved, but under the insistence of his gaze her eyes slowly sank before his. Then, without a word, as one who merely claims his own, he flung his arms around her and crushed her to his heart.

THE END