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He really looked almost–almost. To her sudden annoyance and alarm she found herself finishing the sentence thus, “almost as Charlie did at Avignon.”

“Oh, he’s worth a thousand of Charlie,” she exclaimed, impatiently.

At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting; in the hall. Presently Dora appeared.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“Charlie’s having a drink. Your father and Maud aren’t coming. They’re going to rest.”

“Oh, well, we might start.”

“Excuse me, Miss Dora, there’s some powder on your nose.”

“Oh, is there? Thanks.”

“What have you been powdering for?”

“Really, Sir Roger! Besides the sun has ruined my complexion.”

“Oh, the sun,”

“Yes. Don’t be horrid. Do let’s start.”

“But Charlie–“

“I hate riding three in a cab.”

“Oh, and I like riding alone in one, so—-“

“No, no. You must come with me. Mr. Ellerton can follow us. He’s always drinking, isn’t he? I dislike it so.”

Sir Roger, with a wink at an unresponsive plaster bust of M. le President, followed her to the door. They had just got into their little victoria when Charlie appeared, cigarette in hand.

“Charlie,” observed Deane, “Miss Bell airs thinks you’ll be more comfortable by yourself than perched on this front seat.”

“Especially as you’re smoking,” added Dora. “Allez, cocher.”

Charlie hailed another vehicle and got in. As he did so he remarked between his teeth, “I’m d—-d if I stand it.”

CHAPTER XI

A DYNAMITE OUTRAGE

On one side of the Lake Dora mid John walked together, on the other Mary and Charlie. Miss Bussey and Roger Deane sat in the garden of the cafe. The scene round them was gay. Carriages constantly drove up, discharging daintily attired ladies and their cavaliers. There was a constant stream of bicycles, some of them steered by fair riders in neat bloomer-suits; the road-waterers spread a grateful coolness in their ambit, for the afternoon was hot for the time of year, and the dust had an almost autumnal volume. Miss Bussey had been talking for nearly ten minutes on end, and now she stopped with an exhausted air, and sipped her coffee. Deane lit another cigar and sat silently looking on at the life that passed and repassed before him.

“It’s a curious story,” he observed at last.

“Very; but I suppose it’s all ended happily now. Look at them, Sir Roger.”

“Oh, I see them.”

“Their troubles are over at last, poor children; and really I think they’ve all behaved very well. And yet—-“

“Yes?”

“I should have thought Mary and Mr. Ashforth so suited to one another. Well, well, the heart’s an unaccountable thing–to an old spinster, anyhow.”

“You’re right, Miss Bussey. Take my wife and me. You wouldn’t have thought we should have hit it off, would you? First year I knew her I hardly dared to speak to her–used to mug up Browning and–(Sir Roger here referred to an eminent living writer) and chaps like that, before I went to see her, you know. No use! I bored her to death. At last I chucked it up.”

“Well?”

“And I went one day and talked about the Grand National for half an hour by the clock. Well, she asked me to come again next day, and I went, and told her all about the last burlesque and–and so on, you know. And then I asked her to marry me.”

“And she said ‘Yes’?”

“Not directly. She said there was an impassable gulf between us–an utter want of sympathy in our tastes and an irreconcilable difference of intellectual outlook.”

“Dear me! Didn’t that discourage you?”

“I said I didn’t care a dash; she was the only girl I ever cared for (all right, Miss Bussey, don’t laugh), and I’d have any outlook she liked. I said I knew I was an ass, but I thought I knew a pretty girl when I saw one, and I’d go away if she’d show me a prettier one.”

“Well?”

“Well, she didn’t.”

Miss Bussey laughed a little.

“Of course,” resumed Sir Roger, “I’ve got money, you know, and all that, and perhaps—-“

“Sir Roger! What a thing to say of your wife!”