"Mr. Gage!" Ulrica's expression was compounded of indignation, scorn and amusement. But perhaps the last was the only sentiment that was genuine. "It is not necessary," she protested, "to overdo the part like this." "The part?" "Lady Ormstork's little scheme," she said coolly. "You need not take the trouble to make it quite so life-like." "Oh, it's no trouble," he assured her promptly. "It is a pleasure." "I understood," she observed laughingly, "that the idea was to put it into Quorn's head that he ought to be jealous." "That's it," Peckover replied readily. "And I'm doing my very best to give him cause for jealousy." "It is very spirited of you," she said, with her provocative, mischievous twinkle. "But you need not act quite so hard, need you? At any rate till he sees us." He made a wry face. "Not much fun in waiting till he sees us. It occurs to me this is a little game it pays to play in earnest. That is," he added pointedly, "if both parties are agreeable." "Ah, that's the question," she said tantalizingly. "Won't you answer it?" he asked insinuatingly. "H'm! I rather like you," she admitted. "You are breezy." "Thanks," he replied. "Then I ought to be in request on a warm day like this." "Lord Quorn," she said with provoking irresponsiveness, "is breezy. But with him it blows from a rather different quarter. And he is apt to be a little gusty." "Ah, yes. Dare say he would be," Peckover agreed, recalling certain squally passages in their intercourse. "Well, after all, a change of air ought to be grateful. Does you good." Ulrica laughed. "With the wind chopping about there is likely to be a storm coming." "Is there?" he returned. "Then let us take advantage of the fine weather while it lasts." He was about to give a practical suggestion of how they might make the best of the sunny hours, with his arm only prevented from encircling her waist by a vigorous repulsive action on Ulrica's part, followed by a suggestion that the conditions did not exactly lend themselves to waltzing, when suddenly a man emerged from the bushes and stood in front of them. It was not the Lord Quorn they were expecting, but the real Quorn who had sighted them while prowling about the grounds, and now confronted them with an expression of jealous irritation on his now chronically aggrieved face. "Hullo, my cunning little puppet," he exclaimed rudely. "Enjoying yourself this fine morning?" "Trying to," replied Peckover, betwixt resentment and politic submissiveness. "That's right," said Quorn with a distinctly objectionable sneer. "Poaching on the preserves of the person who calls himself Lord Quorn, it strikes me." "Who is this rude person?" asked Ulrica, not knowing whether to be amused or alarmed. "Oh, he's all right," Peckover assured her uneasily. "Yes," responded Quorn with dismaying suggestiveness. "I am particularly all right. About the only man on the place who is all right, it strikes me."