‘Accurate to the smallest detail! How clearly one can see the meeting of those four water-lanes, and the flowers you gave me, as I know now, alas! for Mrs. Arbuthnot, and the ribbon you tied them with--the ribbon,’ said Geff coolly, ‘which you will some day send me back for a book-marker! Yes, the fairest summer evening of my life was the one when I first saw Tintajeux Manoir--and you.’ And he believed his own words. Sure sign that the heart within him was sound--healthiest life at its core. Guessing at the confessions of that ingenuous maidenly face as Marjorie, half blushes, half wilfulness, persistently gave him her profile, Geoffrey Arbuthnot had clean forgotten Lesser Cheriton, ay, and a drama played out there in which he took a not unimportant part. ‘I think this Norman evening is to the full as fair,’ said Marjorie. ‘There are bigger sweeps of outline, there is more quality in the air than falls to our lot in the Channel Islands.’ Then, again, there came a pause, broken softly by the occasional hum of an insect on the wing, by the swaying of stalks, the whispers of the ripe and restless grain, by the chirp of the hedge crickets, by the solitary treble of a lark lost somewhere, pouring its heart out in the sea-blue vault above. Marjorie could not be silent long. ‘To begin at the beginning, what did you think of me when you got my first note--the two lines I sent in answer to yours? Nothing very good, or you would not be so reluctant to tell it.’ ‘I thought,’ said Geff, ‘that you required my services as a coach, that there was a little affectation about your Greek “e’s,” and that your name was Marjorie D. Bartrand.’ ‘That terrible signature of mine--the one bearable name I possess reduced to a D! You know, Mr. Arbuthnot, I hope, what D. stands for?’ ‘Dorcas?’ suggested Geoffrey, ‘or perhaps Deborah? We have a number of fine old Hebrew names beginning with D.’ ‘But I am not a fine old Hebrew. I am a Spanish woman, heart and soul, and I bear my mother’s name, Dolores. Grandpapa and I met an American in Paris, when I was younger, who used to call me “Miss Dollars.” The thought of that pronunciation always makes me shy of bringing my beautiful Spanish name to the fore.’ ‘Dollars is more beautiful than Dolores.’ Saying this, Geoffrey took studious care to imitate her accent. ‘Dollars is at least suggestive of human activity, of the market-place, not the graveyard. Why should a child, with all the good chances of life open, have such a name as Grief imposed upon her by worldly-wise godfathers and godmothers?’ ‘I speak of Dolores, not Grief, and--and you have no poetry in you, Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot! You don’t know all that a word says to us southern people. Think of plain Marjorie Bartrand--nothing but “ar, ar!” If I could only change Bartrand for a name with no “ar” in it, I----’