“Toby, I’m sorry,” she said. “And please don’t feel like a worm. It is so—so very inappropriate. I was so glad to help you.” Rage took her hands in his. “I _am_ so glad I’ve helped you. And I’m glad to go on helping you—awfully glad. And then we’ll help each other—out of the wood. . . . I’m afraid it sounded as if I repented what I’d done. I don’t, Toby, I don’t. And I don’t quite know why I said such rotten things. Only, when you called me ‘darling’ on—on the top of it all, it . . . seemed as if you were forgetting . . . that it’s only—only a game.” Toby Rage looked into the great brown eyes. “I—I believe I was,” he faltered. “Well, please don’t, Toby dear,” said Cicely Voile. “I’ll tell you why. _I’ve banked on your not forgetting._ I’ve put—not exactly my honour, but my—my value in your hands. The moment that you forget I become cheap.” The man started. “You won’t have made me cheap. I shall have made myself cheap. Cheap in my own eyes—and yours. And I like you just well enough, Toby, not to want that.” “You know that I’d never——” “You wouldn’t at once. But after a little you’d see. Time makes things so painfully clear. Never mind. Now that I’ve told you, I’m sure that you won’t let me down.” She whipped her hands away and put them behind her back. “And now be nice to me, Toby, and give me a cigarette.” * * * * * Twenty-four hours had gone by, and the two were sitting again on the rolling moor. An urchin breeze darted and hung, Puck-like, in the brave sunshine, while earth and sky and sea lifted up radiant heads. Time nodded drowsily over a golden world. From a little fellowship of chestnuts in a neighbouring dell the pert insistence of a cuckoo cheered to the echo the excellence of present mirth. Out of the sweetness of a hawthorn a fragrant eulogy of idleness stole upon the air. The lazy hum of bees about their business swore by content. Miss Voile, however, was not smiling, while Rage was regarding the jovial landscape with a perfectly poisonous stare. “How,” said Cicely, “are you getting on?” Toby started and picked up a writing-pad. “Give me a chance,” he said. “I’m not a journalist. Besides, a letter like this takes some composing.” “It’s got to go off to-night,” said Cicely Voile. “Well, don’t you rush me,” said Toby. “It’s a very delicate job. Any fool can say ‘The engagement’s off,’ but that won’t do for Aunt Ira. What I’ve got to do is to word it in such a way as to stifle the instinct of cross-examination. Well, bein’ an optimist, I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but, if I can’t do it, she won’t come over for the day—she’ll come for a week. I shouldn’t wait for that. I’ve only one heart. But she’ll metaphorically sack Biarritz.” “Oh, it’s easy enough,” said Cicely. “Shove it on to me. Say you find I’m a waster. I don’t care.” “Well, I do,” said Toby violently. Cicely shrugged her fair shoulders. Presently— “Read me as far as you’ve got,” she commanded.