“Can I help you, sir?” As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed Spring’s party the week before. And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . . The way to Holy Brush was asked and told. The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the ground. The look upon his face told Spring two things. The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful. “I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you thinking about?” “I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He looked up suddenly. “And you?” Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape. “I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.” * * * * * For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming. The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that, when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised his discretion. William’s ears burned. On the fifth day, Spring did not come. When Willoughby, approaching the lodge, could see no sign of the lady, for an instant his heart stood still. Ridiculously enough, he had come to expect to find her beneath his window. Hoping against hope, he quickened his pace. . . . Except for William, setting the table for tea, the lodge was empty. Willoughby tried to believe that Spring was late. He washed and changed and made a dozen excuses for not taking tea. He gave her half an hour—three-quarters, while he smoked in the little garden or strolled in the road. Finally, tea was served at six o’clock. Long after that he listened to every footfall: not until half-past eleven did he retire to rest. And all the time he knew that she was not coming, that he would not see her that day.