placidly unconcerned; Dan made no remark; Percy Lister was leaving himself, and considered that things "fitted in well." Altogether, in comparison with the enthusiasm of the invitation, the opposition was blightingly resigned. Darsie tossed her head, packed her boxes, and prepared to depart a whole three days sooner than she had originally intended. On the afternoon before her departure a party was made up for the rink, but at the last moment Darsie excused herself, and declared a wish to stay at home. There were several pieces of sewing and mending which were necessary, there was a letter to be written to Margaret France, and a farewell ode to cheer poor Lavender. A gas fire in her bedroom allowed her to perform these tasks in solitude, but as soon as they were satisfactorily accomplished she made her way downstairs to the study, prepared to enjoy an hour over an interesting book. The gas was unlit, the usual large fire blazed in the grate; an arm- chair was drawn up to the side, and within it sat Dan, head leaning on hand, in an attitude which spoke of weariness and dejection. He raised his eyes and looked at her, and Darsie shut the door and came forward eagerly. "Dan! Back again so soon? Is anything wrong?" "No!" "But you look strange. You--you didn't hurt yourself at the rink?" "No." "Quite, quite sure?" "Quite." Darsie subsided on to her favourite seat--the hearthrug--with a little sigh of relief. "That's all right. You're very monosyllabic, Dan. Shall I disturb you if I sit here for a time?" "No." "A hundred thanks! You are _too_ gracious. I can be quiet if you like. I like staring into the fire and dreaming myself." Dan did not answer. Darsie peered at him, moving her little head from side to side so as to get the clearest view. He looked very large--a great shapeless mass of dark in the old red chair. She liked the bigness of him, felt the old satisfaction at sight of the strong, rugged face, the old craving for confidence and approval. Strange how different one felt in company with different people. _Tete- a-tete_ with Ralph Percival, Darsie felt a giant of strength and resource--assured, self-confident, a bulwark against which others might lean. With Dan, well, with Dan she was just a slip of a girl, conscious of nothing so much as her own weaknesses, mental and physical; her difficult gropings, compared with his clear vision; her tiny hands and wrists, compared with his big sinewy paw; her slim form, compared to the bulk of the square-cut shoulders. Never--Darsie realised it with a smile--never did she feel so humble and diffident as when in Dan's society; yet, strangely enough, the sensation was far from disagreeable. "Dan!" "Darsie!" "Is anything the matter? Between you and me! You don't happen to be snarkey, do you, about anything I've done?" "Why should you think I am `snarkey'?"