But presently Margaret's attendant came to fetch her; she was to have her tea rather early and then change her frock--in order to go downstairs and see Sir Oliver; such were mother's orders. Godfrey's face relapsed into peevishness even while the little girl was kissing him good-bye. "Why should she be dragged down to see Wyse?" he demanded when she was gone. "Oh, I suppose it's the usual thing. Their mothers like showing them off." "All damned nonsense!" grumbled Godfrey, and took up his book again. But he did not read it. He looked at his watch on the table by him. "Half-past four! He'll be here directly." "Oh, well, old chap, does it matter so much----?" Arthur had begun, when Godfrey raised himself in his bed and held up his hand. "There's a motor-horn!" he said. "Listen, don't you hear?" "Yes, I suppose it's him." He strolled to the window, which looked on the drive. "There is a car coming; I suppose it's his." Godfrey let his hand drop, but sat upright for a few moments longer, listening. The car passed the window and stopped at the door. "Yes, it's Wyse all right. The car's open. I saw him." So saying, Arthur left the window and sauntered back towards the bed, his face adorned with a well-meaning smile of common sense and consolation. But Godfrey lay down on the pillow again, and with an inarticulate grunt turned his face to the wall. Arthur stood looking at him in amazement. His smile grew grim--what a ridiculous old chap it was! But there was no more to be got out of him just now; that was clear enough. No more welcome, no more friendly talk! The sulks were back again in full force; Godfrey was entrenched in his last citadel. On Arthur himself devolved the function of acting as Sir Oliver's host. Feeling no great desire to discharge his duties, he lounged slowly down the stairs into the hall; he was conscious of a distinct touch of Oliveritis. The door which led from the hall to Bernadette's own room stood open. They were standing together by the window, Bernadette with her back towards Arthur. Wyse faced her, and her hand rested lightly on his arm--just as it had so often rested on Arthur's own, in the little trick of friendly caress that she had. He ought to have known just what--just how much--could properly be inferred from it; none the less he frowned to see it now. Then he noticed Oliver Wyse's face, rising over her head--for Oliver was tall--and turned downwards towards her. Arthur was in flannels and wore rubber shoes; his feet had made no sound on the carpeted stairs. His approach was unnoticed.