“I suppose one ought not to say,” said Mrs. Geedge, “and yet—why shouldn’t one?” “Exactly,” said Professor Bowles, and every one drew a little nearer to Mrs. Geedge. “One can’t help being amused,” she said. “It was so—extraordinary.” “Is it something about the Captain?” asked Madeleine. “Yes. You see,—he didn’t see me.” “Is he—is he writing poetry?” Madeleine was much entertained and relieved at the thought. That would account for everything. The poor dear! He hadn’t been able to find some rhyme! But one gathered from the mysterious airs of Mrs. Geedge that he was not writing poetry. “You see,” she said, “I was lying out there among the bushes, just jotting down a few little things,—and he came by. And he went down into the hollow out of sight.... And what do you think he is doing? You’d never guess? He’s been at it for twenty minutes.” They didn’t guess. “He’s playing with little bits of paper—Oh! like a kitten plays with dead leaves. He throws them up—and they flutter to the ground—and then he pounces on them.” “But—” said Madeleine. And then very brightly, “let’s go and see!” She was amazed. She couldn’t understand. She hid it under a light playfulness, that threatened to become distraught. Even when presently, after a very careful stalking of the dell under the guidance of Mrs. Geedge, with the others in support, she came in sight of him, she still found him incredible. There was her lover, her devoted lover, standing on the top bar of a fence, his legs wide apart and his body balanced with difficulty, and in his fingers poised high was a little scrap of paper. This was the man who should have been waiting in the hall with feverish anxiety. His fingers released the little model and down it went drifting.... He seemed to be thinking of nothing else in the world. She might never have been born!... Some noise, some rustle, caught his ear. He turned his head quickly, guiltily, and saw her and her companions. And then he crowned her astonishment. No lovelight leapt to his eyes; he uttered no cry of joy. Instead he clutched wildly at the air, shouted, “Oh _damn_!” and came down with a complicated inelegance on all fours upon the ground. He was angry with her—angry; she could see that he was extremely angry. § 11 So it was that the incompatibilities of man and woman arose again in the just recovering love dream of Madeleine Philips. But now the discord was far more evident than it had been at the first breach.