Suddenly her dear lover, her flatterer, her worshipper, had become a strange averted man. He scrabbled up two of his paper scraps before he came towards her, still with no lovelight in his eyes. He kissed her hand as if it was a matter of course and said almost immediately: “I’ve been hoping for you all the endless morning. I’ve had to amuse myself as best I can.” His tone was resentful. He spoke as if he had a claim upon her—upon her attentions. As if it wasn’t entirely upon his side that obligations lay. She resolved that shouldn’t deter her from being charming. And all through the lunch she was as charming as she could be, and under such treatment that rebellious ruffled quality vanished from his manner, vanished so completely that she could wonder if it had really been evident at any time. The alert servitor returned. She was only too pleased to forget the disappointment of her descent and forgive him, and it was with a puzzled incredulity that she presently saw his “difficult” expression returning. It was an odd little knitting of the brows, a faint absentmindedness, a filming of the brightness of his worship. He was just perceptibly indifferent to the charmed and charming things she was saying. It seemed best to her to open the question herself. “Is there something on your mind, Dot?” “Dot” was his old school nickname. “Well, no—not exactly on my mind. But—. It’s a bother of course. There’s that confounded boy....” “Were you trying some sort of divination about him? With those pieces of paper?” “No. That was different. That was—just something else. But you see that boy—. Probably clear up the whole of the Moggeridge bother—and you know it _is_ a bother. Might turn out beastly awkward....” It was extraordinarily difficult to express. He wanted so much to stay with her and he wanted so much to go. But all reason, all that was expressible, all that found vent in words and definite suggestions, was on the side of an immediate pursuit of Bealby. So that it seemed to her he wanted and intended to go much more definitely than he actually did. That divergence of purpose flawed a beautiful afternoon, cast chill shadows of silence over their talk, arrested endearments. She was irritated. About six o’clock she urged him to go; she did not mind, anyhow she had things to see to, letters to write, and she left him with an effect of leaving him for ever. He went and overhauled his motor bicycle thoroughly and then an aching dread of separation from her arrested him. Dinner, the late June sunset and the moon seemed to bring them together again. Almost harmoniously he was able to suggest that he should get up very early the next morning, pursue and capture Bealby and return for lunch. “You’d get up at dawn!” she cried. “But how perfectly Splendid the midsummer dawn must be.”