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She smiled back at him with instant and obvious relief.

“No, I shan’t do it again. It’s not proper. But I will teach you to dance. I’d sooner dance with you than any of ’em.”

It was naively spoken, so naively that Merryon’s faint smile turned into something that was almost genial. What a youngster she was! Her freshness was a perpetual source of wonder to him when he remembered whence she had come to him.

“I am quite willing to be taught,” he said. “But it must be in strict privacy.”

She nodded gaily.

“Of course. You shall have a lesson to-night–when we get back from the Burtons’ dinner. I’m real sorry you were bored, Billikins. You shan’t be again.”

That was her attitude always, half-maternal, half-quizzing, as if something about him amused her; yet always anxious to please him, always ready to set his wishes before her own, so long as he did not attempt to treat her seriously. She had left all that was serious in that other life that had ended with the fall of the safety-curtain on a certain night in England many aeons ago. Her personality now was light as gossamer, irresponsible as thistledown. The deeper things of life passed her by. She seemed wholly unaware of them.

“You’ll be quite an accomplished dancer by the time everyone comes back from the Hills,” she remarked, balancing a fork on one slender brown finger. “We’ll have a ball for two–every night.”

“We!” said Merryon.

She glanced at him.

“I said ‘we.'”

“I know you did.” The man’s voice had suddenly a dogged ring; he looked across at the vivid, piquant face with the suggestion of a frown between his eyes.

“Don’t do that!” she said, lightly. “Never do that, Billikins! It’s most unbecoming behaviour. What’s the matter?”

“The matter?” he said, slowly. “The matter is that you are going to the Hills for the hot weather with the rest of the women, Puck. I can’t keep you here.”

She made a rude face at him.

“Preserve me from any cattery in the Hills!” she said. “I’m going to stay with you.”

“You can’t,” said Merryon.

“I can,” she said.

He frowned still more.

“Not if I say otherwise, Puck.”

She snapped her fingers at him and laughed.

“I am in earnest,” Merryon said. “I can’t keep you here for the hot weather. It would probably kill you.”

“What of that?” she said.

He ignored her frivolity.

“It can’t be done,” he said. “So you must make the best of it.”

“Meaning you don’t want me?” she demanded, unexpectedly.

“Not for the hot weather,” said Merryon.

She sprang suddenly to her feet.

“I won’t go, Billikins!” she declared, fiercely, “I just won’t!”

He looked at her, sternly resolute.

“You must go,” he said, with unwavering decision.

“You’re tired of me! Is that it?” she demanded.

He raised his brows. “You haven’t given me much opportunity to be that, have you?” he said.

A great wave of colour went over her face. She put up her hand as though instinctively to shield it.

“I’ve done my best to–to–to–” She stopped, became piteously silent, and suddenly he saw that she was crying behind the sheltering hand.

He softened almost in spite of himself.

“Come here, Puck!” he said.

She shook her head dumbly.

“Come here!” he repeated.

She came towards him slowly, as if against her will. He reached forward, still seated, and drew her to him.

She trembled at his touch, trembled and started away, yet in the end she yielded.

“Please,” she whispered; “please!”

He put his arm round her very gently, yet with determination, making her stand beside him.

“Why don’t you want to go to the Hills?” he said.

“I’d be frightened,” she murmured.

“Frightened? Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, vaguely.

“Yes, but you do know. You must know.

Tell me.” He spoke gently, but the stubborn note was in his voice and his hold was insistent. “Leave off crying and tell me!”

“I’m not crying,” said Puck.

She uncovered her face and looked down at him through tears with a faintly mischievous smile.

“Tell me!” he reiterated. “Is it because you don’t like the idea of leaving me?”