Caroline was married, and with a decent tear had left for a month’s sweet lunacy under blue skies and on Mediterranean terraces. I had bestowed an appropriate valediction at Victoria Station to the accompanying exhalation of steam, the slamming of doors, and the waving of a green flag, and had returned to my flat.

It had not appeared quite the same to me. I had peeped into the little room that had been so long her own, and a sense of emptiness and unfamiliarity had struck me, leaving little desire to make friends with it. My own rooms were structurally unchanged; but a corded and labelled trunk, left to be called for after the bridal trip, seemed to occupy the whole place to my utter exclusion, and unsettled me greatly. I perceived that virtue had gone out from these lifeless shells of apartments; and my feline attachment to the building itself was not sufficiently strong to reconcile me to an immediate resumption of the old order of things. On the whole, I did not waste much sentiment over the matter, but spoke a word in Mrs. Loring’s ear, received an invitation from some friends of hers in the country, left my chairs in canvas and my blinds in full mourning, and made haste to lawns and trim, clipped hedges till I should summon resolution to face the fresh conditions.

This gave Mrs. Loring, a certain opportunity which, as I had foreseen, she was little likely to waive, and which also suited my mood admirably.

Overhead the rooks were holding their sage, sustained conference, and I, I believe, nodding gravely and judicially, when an undefined sense of intruding mortals caused me to blink through my lashes. Mrs. Loring and Millicent were slowly crossing the lawn in my direction, their white gowns dipping from orange to grey and grey to orange as they traversed the belts of light. Mrs. Loring was talking; this, be it said, was Mrs. Loring’s supreme opportunity.

I had no wish to listen; it was forced on my passive ears.

“I suppose,” she was saying, “now that Caroline’s gone, he must. I know that Cicely Vicars told me you can do what you like with a man who feels a little bit sorry for himself, Millicent. She did.”

This seemed somehow to concern me. I had doubtless felt somewhat low, but had no idea I had showed it so plainly as that. Anyway, Cicely Vicars doubtless knew. Millicent replied:

“I don’t think it’s fair, Mollie, to talk like that. Rollo Butterfield isn’t a fool; and I daresay Charlie Vicars isn’t such a fool as he was—then.”

Thank you, dear lady.

“He isn’t a fool,” Mrs. Loring replied; “but I do call it criminal—simply criminal—that a man who is getting older and—fatter—every week should keep putting off and putting off for no reason at all except that he’s ashamed to give in after so long. It’s rank breach of promise. I know Rollo Butterfield.”

These were hard words to hear of one’s self. Apparently Mrs. Loring’s one desire was that that presence of mine—fat, hang her impudence!—should hold decently together through a marriage service, and run to seedy corpulence immediately afterwards for all she cared. But Millicent vindicated me nobly.

“If Rollo Butterfield, Mollie, was prepared to marry me to keep me in countenance with all the people we know, I’d never let him propose to me—which he hasn’t done, by the way. But you don’t understand him a little bit. He’s not much fatter, my dear, saving your presence, than Loring; and, any way, he’ll be a young man when Loring’s—you understand me. And you can’t say very much more to me on the subject, Mollie.”

“You’ll have to propose to him yourself, then, Millie,” said Mrs. Loring, with a worldly shrug.

“I should not be afraid to do that,” Millicent retorted defiantly.

“I should like to be there when it happened.” Mrs. Loring’s tone expressed the most offhand incredulity in the affair being ever definitely settled. There was a silence as they approached and discovered my presence.

Now, I had never been in the least resentful of Mrs. Loring Chatterton’s self-arrogated responsibility for my welfare and Millicent’s—it had always been too open and frank to be regarded as interference. But in that moment she had given me a hint that I felt half inclined to act upon. Suppose she really were there when it happened?

I rose to meet them.

“Welcome, dear ladies,” I said. “You almost caught me napping. I believe I have been dreaming, and seemed to hear voices.”

I looked at Millicent, and thought she understood; but it did not occur to Mrs. Loring that I might have overheard.

“You dream a good deal nowadays, Mr. Butterfield, don’t you?” she said, somewhat acidulously.

“I fear, Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “that I have lately done it to an extent that is almost criminal.”

She was still unenlightened, but I saw that Millicent guessed. I made places for them on either side of me, but Mrs. Loring hesitated, standing. No chance is too trivial for a matchmaker.

“Sit down, Mrs. Loring,” I said, making myself comfortable just out of the sun.

She sat down. I continued:

“I have been watching the sunset here all alone. It is a lovely evening. You and Loring have doubtless been sitting hand in hand, waiting for the twilight? No? The surroundings seem to call for that kind of thing somehow, don’t you think?”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Mr. Butterfield. I have hopes of you even yet. The evening certainly inspires such—such things—providing they are strictly en rÈgle.”

“Most decidedly,” I assented; “that must always be understood. I admit that it is a delicate matter—that there are times when even the most permissible caress becomes unseasonable, just as at others an unseasonable one is almost permissible. But as a general rule such proceedings must be, as you say, strictly en rÈgle.”

“I find you in a most reasonable mood this evening, Mr. Butterfield,” she approved, with a glance at Millicent. “Dreaming evidently does you good. Pray continue.”

I acknowledged her encouragement, and went on.

“It must be taken for granted, first of all, that the endearment is a bon fide guarantee, in which case publicity is not only unnecessary, but impertinent. A third person, for instance, could not possibly take the slightest interest in it.”

“It would be highly unbecoming,” she assented.

“Quite so,” I replied half absently; “and that is where the kindly interest of, say, the married chaperone fails. In the moment that her presence becomes most necessary, it becomes superfluous. Is not that so?”

“If you mean, Mr. Butterfield, that I——” she said, making a movement as if to rise.

“My dear Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “we are discussing a perfectly abstract question; you appear to be able to deal only with a concrete case.”

“Then,” she retorted, “the sunset has done you less good than I thought. An abstract case on an evening like this!”

And her eyes appeared to fill with pity for Millicent. That lady looked up, but said nothing.

“It is on such evenings, Mrs. Loring,” I returned, “that nothing but the presence of the chaperone divides the abstract from the concrete.”

“Then you do mean——” she said almost impetuously.

“Does it occur to you, Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “that you are speaking with remarkable freedom?”

Mrs. Loring was in a difficult position. To stay was to nullify the opportunity, and to postpone indefinitely (so she thought) the consummation of her disinterested endeavours. To leave, on the other hand, was a hint so pointed that even she felt it might give rise to an embarrassment that would defeat its own ends. I pointed this out to her—of course, in an entirely abstract way; and Millicent, I was pleased to see, regarded the comedy with an amused coolness that had in it very little sympathy for Mrs. Loring Chatterton and her methods. She looked up laughing.

“It would be rather a difficult position for any chaperone to be placed in,” she said mischievously. “Wouldn’t it, Mollie?”

Mollie was rather at a loss.

“A chaperone’s is a difficult position altogether, Millie,” she said, “and it means considerable self-sacrifice on the part of the one who undertakes it.”

“It is a thankless office,” I replied; “but in the case of impetuous youth I suppose it is necessary. Hot blood, Mrs. Loring, must be watched.”

She was getting puzzled, and evidently losing her hold on the situation. “After all,” she answered doubtfully, “when one has confidence in people perhaps it doesn’t matter so much.”

“It is dangerous,” I warned her. “When young recklessness takes the bit between its teeth and plunges headlong into a course of matrimony”—Millicent smiled at the description as applied to ourselves—“some calmer ruling is almost essential. Personally, I think that at all proposals an appointed authority should conduct the ceremonies. One cannot manage such affairs alone.”

She didn’t quite catch the suggestion. “It is perfectly unnecessary,” she replied.

“Indeed?” I asked. “And suppose the affair hung fire, and the proposal never came at all? Imagine the sorrow of the Goddess outside the Machine! I almost think she has a right to insist on personal supervision.”

“I think you are talking a great deal of nonsense,” she replied.

“Then, Mrs. Loring, you fail to follow me. Take a case, say, in which the woman proposes—I suppose you will admit the possibility—the man might be a fool—or dilatory—or getting fat——”

Mrs. Loring Chatterton turned suddenly on me, looked me up, down, widthwise, and through, and found no speech. I returned her look, and Millicent broke into unrestrained laughter. The light that came to the Goddess outside the Machine was too much for her coherence.

“Rollo Butterfield—and you, too, Millicent Dixon!—Millicent—Mr. Butterfield, how dare you, sir? You listened? I didn’t say it!”

“You didn’t say—what, Mrs. Loring?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t take the trouble to feign innocence! I always thought, Mr. Butterfield—! I never—stop laughing, Millicent, this is not a farce—I didn’t think, Mr. Butterfield, that you would use, at least, anything you heard in so discreditable a manner!”

“Mrs. Loring,” I answered, “I did not listen. I was dreaming—dreaming does me good—and I heard the rooks calling, and several other things, quite against my will. Besides,” I added, “if you will consider a moment, don’t you think I was too deeply concerned in your—friendly aspersions—not to have some kind of right in them? I wish to put the thing euphoniously, you understand, Mrs. Loring, but—haven’t you interested yourself too long in what concerns me first of all, to take up any position of outraged propriety now?”

I awaited her reply, my eyes on her face. I should have been sorry to fall out with Mrs. Loring; I had had too much amusement out of her to take her too seriously, and I recognized that meddling was too harsh a word for her conduct. For a full minute she sat looking straight in front of her, and then smiled. All was well.

“I’m sorry for you, Millicent,” she said. “For the first time I have doubts as to your happiness with this—creature. I may yet have to repent that ever I gathered you both under my wing. Rollo Butterfield, you think I’m laughing, but I’m not. I haven’t forgiven you.”

“You reserve your forgiveness, Mrs. Loring, till no further evasion is possible. You are still, permit me to remind you, premature.”

I looked at Millicent, whose face expressed the greatest relish for the whole scene. Millicent understood, and cared as little for Mrs. Loring’s presence as I did myself. A new recklessness took possession of me; so long as she knew, I didn’t give a schoolgirl’s kiss what happened. Mrs. Loring was making uneasy motions, and had attempted several false starts, with the object of leaving us alone. I took Millicent’s hand, imprisoned it in both my own, and looked squarely at Mrs. Loring. She sat spellbound, fascinated, a wedding guest who could not choose but hear.

“Millicent——” I said, and paused.

“Rollo——” she replied.

Mrs. Loring made another attempt to break away.

“Sit in the middle, Mrs. Loring,” I said, and we made the rearrangement. I turned again to Millicent.

“Mrs. Loring says you are to propose to me, Millicent.”

“Mrs. Loring says you would be ashamed to give in after so long, Rollo.”

“You are afraid, Millicent, that I shall say it’s sudden?”

“I am not afraid of anything that you will say. Or do,” she added, as I took her hands across Mrs. Loring.

“Then,” I replied, “I have the honour to ask you, Miss Dixon——”

This was too much for Mrs. Loring. She burst through our hands, and stood, trembling, staring, lost, hysterical. Then fled.

When the moon, a timid dÉbutante in a faint sky, rose behind the clipped boxhedge, we were still in the arbour, Millicent and I. One of her hands shone with an unaccustomed jewel—it had been my mother’s ring—and her other was in my personal and private keeping.

“I believe, Rollo,” she said, “that you are still little more than a boy.”

“Millicent,” I replied, “I realise less now than ever the prospect of being grown up. I am merely grown out—though scarcely more so than Loring,” I added.

She laughed at the recollection.

“And you didn’t mind proposing to me?” I said.

“I shouldn’t have minded proposing to you, Rollo, had you not——”

“Did I propose to you, then, Millicent?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps Mollie had her wish after all.”

Anyway, it didn’t make much difference.