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“Soon as I get a rise.”

“What?” asked the unsophisticated Charlie, who knew the phrase chiefly in connection with fish.

“A rise of screw, you know.”

“Oh, ah, yes–what a fool I am!” and Charlie disappeared beneath the waves.

When they were all on the bank, drying, Willie, encouraged by not being discouraged (save by Sutton’s silence) in his advances, ventured further, and asked in a joking tone:

“And aren’t you marked off yet? We’ve been expecting to hear of it for the last twelve months.”

“What do you mean’?”

“Why, you and Miss Bushell.”

Charlie struggled through his shirt, and then answered, with his first touch of distance:

“Nothing in it. People’ve got no business to gossip.”

“It’s damned impertinent,” observed Victor Sutton in slow and deliberate tones.

Willie flushed.

“I beg pardon,” he said gruffly. “I only repeated what I heard.”

“My dear fellow, no harm’s done,” cried Charlie. “Who was the fool?”

“Well–in fact–my father.”

The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck Charlie.

“I say, did your father state it as a fact?”

“Oh no; but as a certainty, you know.”

“When?”

“Last night at supper.”

Charlie’s brow clouded. Miss B–that is, Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening–that one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste’s business), and that would not have pleased Charlie.

It was all very well for Charlie to count on that blessed evening; but he reckoned without his host–or rather without his guests.

The Bushells came to lunch, Millie driving her terrified mother in a lofty gig; and at lunch Millie recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron. She did not believe it, of course; but it was queer, wasn’t it? Victor Sutton rose to the bait at once.

“We’ll investigate it,” he cried. “Merceron,” (he meant the patient Mr. Vansittart), “didn’t yon once write an article on ‘Apparitions’ for Intellect?“

“Yes, I proved there were none,” answered Mr. Vansittart.

“That’s impossible, you know,” remarked Mrs. Marland gently.

“We’ll put you to the proof this very evening,” declared Mr. Sutton.

Charlie started.

“Are you game, Miss Bushell?” continued Victor.

“Ye–yes, if you’ll keep quite near me, answered Millie, with a playful shudder. Charlie reflected how ill playfulness became her, and frowned. But Millie was pleased to see him frown; she enjoyed showing him that other men liked to keep quite near to her.

“Then this evening we’ll go in a body to the Pool.”

“I shall not go,” shuddered Mrs. Marland.

“An hour after sunset!”

“Half an hour. She might be early–and we’ll stay half an hour after. We’ll give her a fair show.”

“Come,” thought Charlie. “I shall get an hour with Agatha.”

“You’ll come, Charlie?” asked Victor.

“Oh, all right,” he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at him?

The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amusements. Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his racquet.