‘Then I shall certainly come. My ponies want exercise, and to-morrow is one of the Rector’s parochial days, so he won’t miss me for an hour or two. What time do you contemplate arriving at the Abbey?’ ‘Oh, I suppose between one and two, the orthodox luncheon-hour,’ answered Gerald. Daphne was up and dressed before five o’clock next morning. She had set her little American alarum-clock for five; but that had been a needless precaution, since she had not slept above a quarter of an hour at a time all through the short summer night. She had seen the last glimmer of the fading moon, the first faint glow of sunlight flickering on her wall. She stole softly downstairs, unlocked doors and drew bolts with the silent dexterity of a professional housebreaker, feeling almost as guilty as if she had been one; and in the cool quiet morning, while all the world beside herself seemed asleep, she ran lightly across the dewy lawn, down to the iron bridge by which she had stood with Madoline and Gerald last night. Then she crossed the meadow, wading ankle-deep in wet grass, and scaring the placid kine, and thus to the boat-house. She went in and got into her boat, which was drawn up under cover, and carefully protected by linen clothing. She whisked the covering off, and seated herself on the floor of the boat in front of the place of honour, above which appeared the name of the craft, in gilded letters on the polished pine—‘Nero.’ She took out her penknife and began carefully, laboriously, to scrape away the gilt lettering. The thing had been so conscientiously done, the letters were so sunk and branded into the wood, that the task seemed endless; she was still digging and scraping at the first letter when Arden church clock struck six, every stroke floating clear and sweet across the river. ‘What—an—utter—idiot I was!’ she said to herself, in an exasperated tone, emphasising each word with a savage dig of her knife into the gilded wood. ‘And how shall I ever get all these letters out before breakfast time?’ ‘Why attempt it?’ asked a low pleasant voice close at hand, and Daphne, becoming suddenly aware of the odour of tobacco mixed with the perfumes of a summer meadow, looked up and saw Gerald Goring lounging against the door-post, smoking a cigarette. ‘Why erase the name?’ he asked. ‘It is a very good name—classical, historical, and not altogether inappropriate. Nero was a boat-builder himself, you know.’ ‘Was he?’ said Daphne, sitting limply in the bottom of her boat, completely unnerved. ‘Yes; the vessel he built was a failure, or at any rate the result of his experiment was unsatisfactory, but the intention was original, and deserves praise. I am sorry you have spoilt the first letter of his name.’