Upon the Sunday following, the last Sunday in June, Miss Tiddle mounted her bicycle and rode over to the Manor. Rain had fallen after a month’s heat and drought, and a delicious fragrance was exhaled by fields full of new-mown hay. As Tiddy sped along, she told herself that she had been a fool. Being really clever, this reflection failed to annoy her. Everybody made ghastly blunders when they interfered with the lives and characters of others.

“A marriage has been arranged, and will take place in the autumn, between Cicely Selina, only surviving child of the late Henry Chandos, M.F.H., of Upworthy Manor, Melshire, and Arthur George, second Lord Wilverley, of Wilverley Court in the same county.”

Arranged ...!

The word rankled in Tiddy’s mind. But that mind she regarded as fully open, like her round eyes which “took in,” with genuine hospitality, everybody within her ken. Possibly this marriage had not been arranged. During Cicely’s absence from Wilverley Court, Tiddy had talked much with the noble owner. And noble he was! The two had become friends. Tiddy, as we know, liked men; she had flirted with Midland “nuts.” And these had not impressed her favourably, being, so she decided, concerned with themselves and the colour of their ties and socks. Even young officers, gallant fellows, “swanked” too much for Miss Tiddle’s democratic taste. And she had come to Wilverley Court slightly prejudiced against a man whom she had imagined to be quite other than he was. Arthur’s simplicity and honesty delighted her. She believed that he, at any rate, loved Cicely devotedly, although he might be incapable of tearing a passion to tatters. Believing this, it was intolerable to contemplate his marriage with a girl who did not love him as he deserved to be loved. On the other hand, it was quite possible that Cicely’s friendship for him had warmed into a sort of hard-and-fast, “stand-the-wash” attachment. As yet she had not heard of Grimshaw’s return to Upworthy. A man with dark, disconcerting eyes had flitted across a susceptible maid’s horizon, and then disappeared. From what Cicely, being a Chandos, had left unsaid, Tiddy was positive upon one point: Grimshaw had kindled in her friend the divine spark. He had become, momentarily, the divine spark. It was likely, men being so amazingly unobservant, that Grimshaw, engrossed with his profession, had left Upworthy unconscious of this. With all her powers of intuition, Miss Tiddle lacked as yet the experience which might guide her to the right conclusion. A profounder knowledge of the conventional class to which she did not belong would have revealed that obstinate pride which she herself was incapable of entertaining, which, if she considered it, she dismissed impatiently as mid-Victorian and idiotic. If, she reflected, Grimshaw had cared, he would have written to Cicely. She could not conceive, because for her they did not exist, the differences, hydra-headed, between a G.P. and a daughter of the House of Chandos. When a man touched her fancy, however lightly, she “nestled up,” as she put it, not flirtatiously, but with the deliberate intention of analysing the effects of intimacy.

Yes; she had been a fool. Mrs. Roden exercised clearer vision. Intuition, nothing else, had constrained Miss Tiddle to make a mountain of romance out of a molehill.

The odds were that this marriage had not been “arranged” in the odious sense.

Accordingly, Tiddy braced herself for the coming encounter, derisively prepared to do and say the expected thing. Cicely’s artless prattle about frocks and bridesmaids might be hard to endure, but she would listen patiently and reply with enthusiasm—play the game, in fine. Then she would try to get a billet in France.

Just before reaching Upworthy, her back tyre punctured. Tiddy jumped off, got her repairing kit, and turned the bicycle upside down. She prided herself upon taking with equanimity what an American lady has called “the collateral slaps of Providence.” To her dismay, however, she was unable to remove the tyre. It stuck obstinately. Tiddy became uncomfortably hot. And she wished to remain cool, conscious that Lady Selina’s blue eyes would turn protestingly from any evidences of ... perspiration. Why did open pores offend old-fashioned gentlewomen? Tiddy was turning this over in her active mind, when she saw, with relief, an approaching cyclist, identified first as a man and immediately after as a gentleman. Tiddy sent out the S.O.S. signal; the cyclist jammed on his brakes and leapt to the ground.

“You are in trouble,” he said courteously.

It was Grimshaw.

Tiddy was quite sure of it. A mere male cannot hazard a conjecture as to the reasons which bring instant conviction to the female intelligence. Perhaps she recognized the dark, disconcerting eyes burning out of a thin, pale face; perhaps she saw a doctor’s service-bag strapped behind the bicycle.

“Tyre stuck,” said Tiddy. “Can you tell me if there is anybody in Upworthy who could get it off?”

“I can,” he answered.

She protested, but he went to work promptly, removing his coat and throwing his cap upon it. At this, any doubt as to his identity vanished. Cicely had laid emphasis upon Grimshaw’s eagerness in ministration. According to Cicely, his knightly quality was conspicuous. Cicely, so Tiddy remembered, had used the word “halo,” which had provoked a gibe from Miss Tiddle. At this moment she actually beheld the halo. A vainer girl might have flattered herself into the belief that bright eyes and curls were quickening these activities. But Grimshaw had not looked keenly at her, but at the bicycle. She knew that he would have helped the plainest maid in the village with equal alacrity.

“He’s a rare good sort,” she decided, “but he looks horribly ill, and why is he here instead of in France?”

To ask herself questions when another could answer them was not Miss Tiddle’s failing. The situation began to interest her. She said casually:

“I thought you were in France, Mr. Grimshaw.”

Grimshaw looked up. She had no reason to complain of lack of penetration in his glance. And his next words confirmed her first impression that he was quite out of the ordinary. Wilverley, for instance, would have looked puzzled, taking for granted he had met this sparkling stranger before and forgotten her. Grimshaw said sharply:

“You know me, but I have never met you; never.”

She laughed, a delightful tinkle of sound which brought a smile to his lips.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, you happen to be right. We have never met. All the same, I know you.”

“How?”

Mischievously, she continued:

“There are such things as photographs.”

“There are. It happens that I have not been photographed for about ten years. I hate photographs.”

“Then you have no idea who I am?”

“None.”

Tiddy reflected that Cicely, evidently, had not taken undue pains to describe her best friend to another friend. However ...!

“I am Arabella Tiddle.”

Grimshaw remained perfectly calm.

“My name is—a—unfamiliar?”

“Not—unfamiliar. I have seen your surname on—on——”

“Hoardings. And in advertisements. Tiddle’s Family Pellets. I am Sir Nathaniel Tiddle’s daughter.”

Grimshaw bowed, saying politely:

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This is much better than a formal introduction.”

Was he pulling her leg?

“Miss Chandos never mentioned my name to you?”

“No.”

Tiddy experienced a tiny, triumphant thrill. She had brought out Cicely’s name plumply, and designedly so, the artful baggage! And Grimshaw had winced—winced! True, he recovered himself, swiftly, but a glimpse had been vouchsafed her, all that she wanted at the moment.

“I am her school-friend. We worked together at Wilverley Court as V.A.D.’s. I am on my way to the Manor now.”

“Not yet.”

She was delighted. Wilverley, much as she liked and esteemed that honest fellow, was incapable of subtleties of speech. The “not yet” was immensely revealing. He could pull legs, she decided. That was a greater accomplishment than setting them. She began to hope that the recalcitrant tyre would not budge too easily. Grimshaw was hard at work on it.

The tyre yielded suddenly. To test him, and to test, also, her own powers of attraction, she said quickly:

“Thanks ever so much. I can repair the inner tube.”

“The tyre will not go on again too easily. Where is your repairing stuff?”

He spoke peremptorily. And his attention appeared to be focussed on the inner tube, as he searched for the puncture. Tiddy stood by with the small box, opening it and taking out patches and sandpaper.

“What a good Samaritan!” she murmured.

His fingers challenged her admiration; how deftly they moved; how swiftly. What exquisite instruments! Involuntarily, she exclaimed:

“I’m sure you operate wonderfully.”

Perhaps he hated compliments as much as photographs. He said with professional curtness:

“Ah! you have worked in the theatre at Wilverley?”

“No. But I acted as ‘special’ for three weeks—dressings, and all that. Miss Chandos told me you were in France. But I knew, of course, that just before the war you were Dr. Pawley’s partner.”

Giving the rubber solution time to dry, he explained curtly, with an air as if his concerns couldn’t possibly interest others, that he had been invalided home and was taking up his old work.

“Do you like country practice?”

He replied evasively: “I like work, Miss Tiddle, and there is plenty of it here.”

“Too much,” observed Tiddy tranquilly.

“Yes; too much. A month of drought has played the deuce. Now comes the tug.”

“You are speaking of Upworthy?”

“I am speaking of the outside tyre.”

Tiddy had the impression that she was courteously snubbed. Grimshaw wrestled with the tyre, and prevailed. Then he righted the bicycle with a vigorous swing, and held it by the bars.

“Up, and away!”

“Thanks, Mr. Grimshaw, and thanks again.”

“Not at all. Good-bye.”

“Certainly not. Au revoir.”