“I have reason to believe that Jane would respond more readily to your wooing were it conducted in some vast sandy waste. And there is another thing,” I proceeded, earnestly, “which I must impress upon you. See that there is nothing tame or tepid about your behaviour when you propose. You must show zip and romance. In fact, I strongly recommend you, before you even say a word to her, to seize her and clasp her in your arms and let your hot breath sear her face.” “Who, me?” said William. “Believe me, it is what will appeal to her most.” “But, I say! Hot breath, I mean! Dash it all, you know, what?” “I assure you it is indispensable.” “Seize her?” said William blankly. “Precisely.” “Clasp her in my arms?” “Just so.” William plunged into silent thought once more. “Well, you _know_, I suppose,” he said at length. “You’ve had experience, I take it. Still--Oh, all right, I’ll have a stab at it.” “There spoke the true William Bates!” I said. “Go to it, lad, and Heaven speed your wooing!” * * * * * In all human schemes--and it is this that so often brings failure to the subtlest strategists--there is always the chance of the Unknown Factor popping up, that unforeseen X for which we have made no allowance and which throws our whole plan of campaign out of gear. I had not anticipated anything of the kind coming along to mar the arrangements on the present occasion; but when I reached the first tee on the Wednesday afternoon to give William Bates that last word of encouragement, which means so much, I saw that I had been too sanguine. William had not yet arrived, but Jane was there, and with her a tall, slim, dark-haired, sickeningly romantic-looking youth in faultlessly fitting serge. A stranger to me. He was talking to her in a musical undertone, and she seemed to be hanging on his words. Her beautiful eyes were fixed on his face, and her lips slightly parted. So absorbed was she that it was not until I spoke that she became aware of my presence. “William not arrived yet?” She turned with a start. “William? Hasn’t he? Oh! No, not yet. I don’t suppose he will be long. I want to introduce you to Mr. Spelvin. He has come to stay with the Wyndhams for a few weeks. He is going to walk round with us.” Naturally this information came as a shock to me, but I masked my feelings and greeted the young man with a well-assumed cordiality. “Mr. George Spelvin, the actor?” I asked, shaking hands. “My cousin,” he said. “My name is Rodney Spelvin. I do not share George’s histrionic ambitions. If I have any claim to--may I say renown?--it is as a maker of harmonies.” “A composer, eh?” “Verbal harmonies,” explained Mr. Spelvin. “I am, in my humble fashion, a poet.” “He writes the most beautiful poetry,” said Jane, warmly. “He has just been reciting some of it to me.” “Oh, that little thing?” said Mr. Spelvin, deprecatingly. “A mere _morceau_. One of my juvenilia.” “It was too beautiful for words,” persisted Jane.