By this time Van Buren was entirely in Harry's confidence; that is to say, Harry had gradually trained him to bear without flinching the situation as Harry represented it. He believed Harry had a hopeless romantic affection for Mrs. Romer Wyburn which he was trying to stifle, and that Miss Walmer being hopelessly in love with him, he was doing his best to marry her, partly, as he candidly admitted, on worldly grounds.

Van Buren was deeply touched at Harry's trust in him, and was always trying to keep him up to his good resolutions by pointing out that any understanding (however Platonic) between the pretty Valentia and the handsome guest was dishonourable, a breach of hospitality towards Romer, that silent but admirable host.

Indeed, he repeated to Harry so often and so firmly, "It can't be done; one can't make love to the wife of a friend," that Harry was driven to the point of replying that he hardly saw whom else, as a matter of fact, one could very well make love to; it being impossible to have romances with people one didn't know. And in this case the fact that Harry was very fond of Romer made the temptation far greater, as he explained; Harry being (as he pointed out) so very sensitive and highly strung that he could never, somehow, be really attracted by a woman whose husband was not sympathetic to him. Which point of view Van Buren, shaking his head, regarded as unsound.

Harry now spent much time giving picturesque sketches and impressions of his feelings to his friend, for he had an almost feminine love of talking over personal affairs to the sympathetic. In his benevolence Van Buren longed to protect Valentia and Romer, and to give Miss Walmer all she wanted; but most of all his idea was to save Harry from himself, so he always accepted with alacrity invitations to the Green Gate for altruistic reasons. Besides, his desire to see Daphne, although she was now becoming more and more remote to him, was still persistent, if a little less vivid.

"I've had a beautiful womanly letter from Alec to-day," Harry confided in Van as soon as he arrived. "You know the sort of thing she writes: all in jerks and subaltern's slang. With sincere sentiment showing between the lines. And I answered it."

"A beautiful manly letter, I hope? I'm sure you could do that as well as any one, Harry."

Harry smiled.

"Oh, just some vague, cautious slosh, not unamusing in its way—it'll get there all right."

"Yes, Harry, I know, but I do hope——Ah, Miss Daphne, how beautiful your England is looking to-day! In America we never have a day like this, warm and yet cool, with all those nice, white, fleecy clouds in the sky. Our atmosphere is always so hard and clear. Now this garden with those large trees is just like a Corot. They are fine trees. Poplars, I presume?"

"You do presume," smiled Daphne; "I don't know what they are, but I'm perfectly sure they're not poplars."

"Oh yes—I'm wrong. They're oaks, I've no doubt." He hummed, "'The oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree.' Do let's walk over and look at them closer, Miss Daphne."

"I'm afraid I can't. Tea's ready."

To his annoyance Van was obliged to follow Daphne and join the group round the tea-table. He declined with some formality of manner to accept the glass of iced water Daphne offered him, and looked at her with that look of tender, fixed, respectful reproach that had the effect of irritating her very nearly to the point of incivility.

She turned to Muir Howard, who was looking very pink and cheery. Muir was a popular man for his great ease in making conversation, the kind that is as the pudding part in a plum pudding, and without which the plums, however delightful, could hardly stick together. Though the great majority of people talk commonplaces, their banalities are by no means always the kind that help. Muir's particular way of opening open doors, flogging dead horses, and genially enjoying any spark of fun in his friends, coupled with his good looks and pleasant, hearty disposition, made him a most useful and welcome guest, as a sort of super. He was quite decorative, and could be turned on to talk newspaper politics to dull men, pretty platitudes to plain women; to make himself generally useful, and altogether to help things to go. In this way he was invaluable. Young girls always liked him; he was a great favourite with elderly ladies, and with men of his own age also, who were, however, occasionally bored with his worship for his friend Vaughan. He found it very difficult not to mention Gillie less than once in every five minutes.

That distinguished young man, who was beginning to look a little jaded with incense, was engrossed with his hostess. Whenever he was there Harry always became particularly devoted in his manner to Valentia, and scarcely ever left her other side. This was one of the reasons that she enjoyed Gillie's presence, besides that she was, now that she knew him well, particularly fond of him. His conversation and personality in general had a special flavour.

Every one was talking and laughing with the light intoxication produced by tea and cigarettes in the open air on a fine Sunday afternoon, excepting only Romer, who as usual said hardly anything, absorbed in admiration of his wife. He suddenly remarked—

"I say, Val. The Campbells are coming."

He wondered why this statement produced a burst of irresponsible laughter.

"What fun! Will there be bagpipes?" Vaughan asked.

"No, no. Romer means the Prebendary Campbell, or at least his wife and daughter. They're coming to see us this afternoon. I had quite forgotten. Please all behave nicely. They've been a long time making up their minds. I believe they think we're frivolous."

"Not really? How could they? It reminds one of the story of Henry James." Vaughan stopped to light a cigarette.

"Go on."

"It appears that for some time his near neighbours in the country looked a little coldly on him on the grounds that, being a writer, he must be Bohemian. At last the local doctor's wife and clergyman's wife called on him, and finding him perfectly respectable, stayed for many hours. They were particularly tedious and rather self-righteous. When they had gone, he said thoughtfully to some one who was pitying him for being bored, 'One of those poor wantons has a certain cadaverous grace.'"

The story was well received, except by Van Buren, who seemed painfully shocked.

Daphne, who had gone into the house to fetch some snapshots, now came running back saying—

"Val, Val! The Campbells are arriving in a fly, and they seem to have brought their foreigner with them—that man Miss Campbell told me about. He's a kind of Belgian, and awfully clever—he's invented something."

"What's he invented?"

"Brussels sprouts?" suggested Harry rather sleepily.

"But they've been invented already."

"Why shouldn't he invent them over again? Give him a chance."

Muir began to sing softly, "Young Lochinvar has come out of the West," which he appeared to think a suitable serenade, but he stopped suddenly at Gillie's entreaty.

"I don't mind anything Muir does, as long as he doesn't sing," he always explained.

"It's awful hard lines. I've got a ripping baritone voice, but I never have a chance to use it," murmured Muir.

"You shall sing to me this afternoon. I'll accompany you," whispered Daphne.

Muir had gratefully answered that it was frightfully decent of her, when the servant announced—

"Mrs. and Miss Campbell. Mr.——" He left a blank, unable to pronounce the name.

But Mrs. Campbell introduced Mynheer von Stoendyck.

Mrs. Campbell was an amiable, colourless woman, with a greyish brown fringe that looked as if it were made of Berlin wool. Though she was not yet forty-five, she wore a bonnet with violet velvet strings, and had a very long waist. Also, her skirt, in reality quite normal, looked, to the eye used to contemporary fashion, grotesquely wide at the end.

Her daughter was an ordinary Rectory girl, spoilt by a dash of culture. At a glance all present saw she was in love with Mr. Stoendyck. He was a well-set-up man of about thirty-five, with a military manner and scientific eye-glasses, also a turned-up light moustache. He spoke all languages with one rasping accent, but Mrs. Campbell seemed to suffer under the delusion that he could only understand broken English. So whenever people spoke to him she translated their remarks into a sort of baby language that seemed singularly out of place from her.

"I'm afraid you must think me dreadfully worldly, calling on you on a Sunday," said Mrs. Campbell, laughing socially as she sat down. "But what the Prebendary always says is, the better the day the better the deed."

"Oh, does he always say that?" Harry asked with great apparent interest, waking up. He had been overpowered with languor ever since lunch.

"Yes, and I felt sure you wouldn't mind our bringing our friend, Mr. Stoendyck. He is so clever. He's come over to England about an invention."

Val thought of Brussels sprouts, but did not suggest it.

Mrs. Campbell apparently couldn't take her eyes off the Belgian, whom she watched as one watches a rather dangerous pet, though he appeared particularly safe.

Muir, for an unknown reason addressing the Belgian as Professor, was asking him his impressions of England. Mrs. Campbell bent forward, and said with a nod—

"E ope you like it—Angleterre, you know"—and nodded idiotically.

"I find it most interesting," said Mr. Stoendyck raspingly, in admirable English. "There are opportunities in this country for the pursuance of science, art, and social intercourse which one would hardly have expected. I do not take tea, I thank you much."

"Have a glass of beer?" said Romer, suddenly inspired.

Simple as the sentence was, Mrs. Campbell thought it necessary to translate it with more nods.

"E ask you, ave beer. BiÈre, you know! Glass," and then she went on in her usual tone, "Most thoughtful of Mr. Wyburn, I'm sure. What a charming place this is of yours, Mrs. Wyburn. I always say the Green Gate is the most picturesque place in the neighbourhood. And Mr. de Freyne, I understand, is an artist. Do you know my daughter, Marion, is so interested in art! And my younger son, Garstin, though he is only twelve years old, shows great artistic talent, too. He did a map of Buckinghamshire that really surprised me, almost any one would recognise it at a glance. I always say I'm sure some day Garstin will be in the Royal Academy."Van Buren had approached and began to talk to Mrs. Campbell. Val went over to the Belgian, but she heard the American beginning a sentence as usual with, "Pleased to meet you. I've never had the opportunity of mixing much in clerical circles in New York, Mrs. Campbell," and felt sure he was going to ask impossible questions about Prebendaries and Rural Deans.

The rasping Belgian, on whom both the mother and daughter cast continual anxious and admiring eyes, though he seemed thoroughly able to take care of himself, said to Muir, who was taking him on—

"No, I do not spend my entire time over my invention. Mrs. Campbell is so kind as to take me for drives in the environment, to give me a right impression of the beauties of Hertfordshire. For relaxation I play the piano."

"Ha! Musical, eh, Professor?" asked Muir shrewdly. "That's right; so am I. I'm awfully keen on music." He spoke reassuringly.

Mr. Stoendyck looked at him through his glasses, and said without interest—

"Indeed. I find Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, even on the piano, extraordinarily satisfying and refreshing to the mind after the strain of looking at English scenery." He drank a long draught of iced lager.

"Oh! Classical, eh? I'm not up to that. Queen's Hall, eh? That sort of thing."

"I beg your pardon? Is there——Has the Queen a hall in this neighbourhood?"

"How do you mean, Professor?"

"What do you say?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Mrs. Campbell, who managed to hear through her own conversation with Van Buren, called out—

"E say e no understand," and nodded smilingly, seeming to think she had helped matters considerably.

Miss Campbell talked of tennis, matins, hats and the opera to Daphne, but appeared to be absent, and occasionally smiled at the foreigner, who ignored her.

At last the Campbells and their Belgian withdrew, Mrs. Campbell saying that the Prebendary wished them to go to Evensong. Their departure left, as such visits do, a blank and a reaction. Our friends were silent for a minute.

Then Vaughan said—

"I feel crushed, and a little flattened out, too."

"I feel as if my brain were made of cotton wool," said Harry.

"Come and sing," suggested Daphne to Muir, and they went off to the drawing-room, from which strains were soon heard about It IS not because,—something or other.In the middle of the song Daphne played a wrong note, stopped, and said—

"Oh, I wish Cyril was here!"

"So do I. If he can accompany, I wish he was here."

"Oh, go on!"

"It IS not because thy heart is mine"....

The party in the garden listened with a worried expression.

"How about croquet?" suggested Val. "The tapping noise will take it off."

"Yes. Come on."

"You can't," said Romer. "The lawn wants mowing."