Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to receive Vaughan.

To harmonise with the Dickens's garden it ought to have been white muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.

Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt, as she called it.

Her almost too abundant hair had been piled over a pad, which gave her the appearance of having a swollen head. Yet even so she looked lovely, rather like an old-fashioned picture in the Academy of I'se Gan'ma, or something of the kind, suggesting a baby disguised as a grown-up-person.

Vaughan went through the usual ritual of asking after Mrs. Brill—he rather hurried Mr. Brill over his remark about the finest woman one would see in a day's march—then admired the weather, ordered tea, and asked for Miss Brill.

Gladys came and sat down with a rather shy, self-conscious air.

She soon lost it, however, and began to get natural again.

"Oh, Mr. Vaughan! I never was more surprised than I was at that piece in the paper! And mother come over quite queer, she was so surprised. You were kind in your letter to forgive me for being rude. Who'd ever have thought you was clever?"

"Who, indeed! But, Gladys, why this get-up? Why are you dressed up in satin and dark colours on a summer day?"

"Why, mother said a nice navy blue was always useful. I'd rather have had a Cambridge blue myself. Mother says navy blue's so ladylike. Don't you like it?"

"Charming. But I don't like what you've done to your hair."

"Don't you, though? Fancy! Well, I don't seem to care much for it myself. It's a Pompadour, you know—a pad.""Take it off," said Vaughan.

"Oh, I can't!"

"All right, I will. Come in the field."

"Well, I don't mind if you do. I'll say I took my hair down because it was heavy."

"You've tried to spoil yourself, but you haven't succeeded. Why did you do it, Gladys?"

"Seeing you was clever, I thought pr'aps I'd better try to look more grown-up."

"Ah! what a mistake! Your great charm is that you're such a regular J.F."

"What's that?"

"A jeune fille."

"What does that mean? What's a J.F. in English?"

"A jolly flapper."

"Oh, I say!"

In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair fell down over his face and he had kissed her—by accident—before he knew it.

"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.

An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior in contrast to what his conduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure—

He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth.

These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.

What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey—what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy.

What did he care for people? He had never lived either to Épater the bourgeois or to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was going to do something he liked!...

He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it wasn't so much the question of what people would say—of course, most of the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and make love to her—but, how long would it last? How long would this strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an awful time, too. She was much happier as she was.Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it.

He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post. Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to reply in time.

Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as though he would inherit the title). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down at Stanmore. Her fiancÉ was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and remained his truly, Gladys Brill.

Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which suggested rough copies and even some assistance from the old vintages of the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, by him and his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr. Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always using a capital S for station—(as though Vaughan had expressed an insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he remained very respectfully, Tom Brill.

"A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them come round."

Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile again.

But he did.