There are, we take it, about three ways which lead to what the provincial reporter delights to term "the hymeneal altar." The first is the ordinary "proposal," wherein John is conventionally supposed to sue humbly for the privilege of maintaining Mary for the term of her natural life, eke Mary's prospective lineal descendants in any number--not exceeding seventeen--peradventure with a mother-in-law thrown in, and to count life as not worth living, in the event of these multifold advantages--we will not call them liabilities--being denied him. The second may be termed the extraordinary "proposal," wherein the overtures are precisely the other way about, barring, it may be, the maintenance condition and the mother-in-law; and this, by the bye, is not so uncommon as Mrs Grundy affects to believe. The third differs _in toto_ from the other two, in that it does not deal with "proposals" at all, but is the result of evolution--taking rise in a tacit and intangible understanding, and culminating in an arrangement neither more nor less definite than any _entente a deux_ can be said ever to be. This way, on the face of it, is the most risky of the three, but it has its advantages. Whatever its risks, however, just such an understanding exists between the pair whom we find alone here on the summit of Minchkil Beacon. Roy, curled up there among the heather and apparently asleep, will take good care that the intruding steps of any afternoon wayfarer shall not approach unsignalled--and meanwhile to all purposes these two have the world to themselves. "Am I distrustful?" says Olive softly, in comment on her companion's last remark. "No, you're not," is the vehement reply, "but I am. I thought you were never coming back, and was very nearly going up to Town myself. Now look here. I can't let you go again!" "But I must go again," she objected demurely, but with a flash of mirth in her dark eyes. "I shall have to go soon, too." "You shan't." His hand closes, on hers, as if the prohibition was to be put in force at that moment and by physical agency. "Diddums teasums then!" says the girl in tones of mock soothing, passing her little hand over his forehead and hair caressingly. "You know, dear, I like sometimes to arouse the savage in your composition. It amuses me, because I can send him back into his shell in a minute. But it's all very well. You had a very good time of it while I was away. At Ardleigh, for instance!" For all answer he laughs--quietly, almost inarticulately, as a man will laugh over some proposition manifestly, absurdly preposterous. "That's all very well, but I hear the Nevilles are very delightful people, and--" "Broomsticks." "--And Clara and Maud, you know, were very sweet to you, and Isabel Pagnell--" "--And Mother Frewen, and Miss Munch and Mrs Bunch. Go on. Run through the whole list--of broomsticks."