merrier days: that there might be no doubt about the matter, it said as much, announcing in so many words that it was "A Present from Margate." ... Scaramouche Melancholy fairly squirmed with delight. Then she turned upon Anthony eyes swimming with tenderness, put up consoling lips.... The entrance of Polichinelle, however, cudgel and all, in the shape of a little white dog, dragging a bough with him, spoiled her game. Harlequin Sun, too, flashed out of hiding--before his cue, really, for the shower was not spent. Scaramouche fled with a snarl. At Polichinelle's obvious request, Anthony seized the spare end of the bough, and the two tugged with a will--an agreeable tourney, which was always eventually settled in the lists of Frolic itself. And, whiles they strove, Harlequin danced in and out the trees, with magic touch of bat making the mizzle shimmer and the meadows gleam, and finally, with rare exuberance, breaking his precious colours overhead, to say the masque was over and bid the racing winds hustle away the fretful scenery and clear the stage of sky for his possession. Master and dog made their way to the inn jubilantly enough. As he devoured his tea, Lyveden thought again of the girl--more cheerfully. Indeed, he made bold to decide that she was interested in him. That such interest sprang from the loins of Curiosity he admitted readily. Its origin did not matter; the trouble was to keep it alive. It is obvious that he himself was more than interested. He was, I suppose, in love. At the moment when he had looked upon her for the first time his heart had leaped. Instantly the man knew that he had seen his maid. He had no doubt of it at all, but was quite positive. If a million Archangels had appeared and with one voice told him that he was wrong, he would have shaken his head with a smile. His heart had leaped, and there was an end of it. He just knew. In view of the prospective failure of so many Archangels, it is not surprising that my lady herself, whatever she did, would not be able to erase this impression. Consequently though she had behaved to his face with a manner which it was a Quixotic courtesy to style "disdain," Anthony never wavered. For a second of time he had seen beyond the veil--at least, his heart had--and, now that he knew what it hid, all reinforcement of that veil was out of date. My lady might line it with oak, with brass, with masonry miles thick--and all her labour would be in vain. All the same, Anthony hoped devoutly that she would do nothing of the kind.... With a sigh he drank to their next meeting. Then he called the terrier and set him upon his knee.