"Bother it," Peckover muttered, putting on the air of self-conscious indifference usual in such contretemps. "All right, Miss Dagmar," said Ethel through her teeth. "Hope we haven't disturbed you," exclaimed Sharnbrook who had followed Dagmar into the room. Peckover jumped up and went to him. "Got a cigarette?" he asked in a loud voice, adding in a whisper, "Don't look so pleased, old man; or you'll spoil everything." Sharnbrook took the hint at once. "Don't speak to me, Mr. Gage," he cried resentfully. "You've not lost any time," Dagmar sarcastically remarked to her sister. "No, dear," Ethel replied with feline sweetness. "He belongs to that appalling woman from Australia," said Dagmar confidently. "She'll hold him. Don't you wish you may get him." "I've got him," Ethel declared. "She's ready to break it off," whispered Peckover to Sharnbrook. "Don't be too eager. Pretend to be broken-hearted." The other nodded. "Mr. Gage," he said, with a fine show of dignified feeling, "I find I am mistaken in you." "That you are," Peckover muttered aside through the corner of his mouth. "How do you do the broken-hearted?" Sharnbrook enquired in a whisper, seeing the ladies were occupied in reciprocating sarcasms. "Don't make too much noise," Peckover instructed him, in the same tone. "Think you are feeling sick; that it's your wedding-day with Ethel. Fancy you've missed a pheasant and shot your best dog." "But I should make a noise," the pupil objected. "Well, mug a bit," said Peckover, with a model grimace suggestive of the wrong horse winning. "Oh, don't speak to me!" Sharnbrook shouted, as the ladies seemed to tire of their mutual repartees. "That's it," murmured Peckover. "Don't let her go too easily." "I--I have something to say to you, Ethel," Sharnbrook declared with a sob in his voice. "Oh, Jack," she exclaimed, with a pretty imitation of remorseful distress. "Come round the garden with me, if it be for the last time," said Sharnbrook, his tones quivering with emotion. "Too loud," whispered Peckover critically as the jilted swain passed him. "Oh, Jack," cried Ethel, the distress in her voice counterbalanced by the look of triumph she threw at her sister, "don't look so miserable. I couldn't help it." Sharnbrook gave vent to an explosive, window-rattling sigh as, with a wicked half-grin at his deliverer, he held open the door. The fickle Ethel, as she prepared to pass out, put her shapely hand to her treacherous lips and contrived to waft a kiss to her latest lover. And she did this without detracting in any appreciable degree from the contrite expression with which she successfully veiled her sense of triumph. Which shewed that, up to a point, she was a clever girl, or at least a credit to her maternal up-bringing. CHAPTER XXI