They parted, and returned to each other. The man exacted pledges from the maid. She would remain true if the winds whistled and the tempest roared? She swore it, as she clung to him, hearing the raging blast already, shrinking from it, revealing herself adorably as weak only in this: the gnawing fear that her love might bring trouble and suffering to her lover. Gallantly, he reassured her. Let the storm, if it came, rage itself out! They would glide afterwards into a snugger harbourage. He turned to leave her, but looked back. Tears filled her eyes. He kissed them away. “I found you crying. Let me leave you smiling. Your smiles, Joyce, are your dowry. I shall work to win those dear little smiles.” She told him that she was happy. Did he grudge her tears of joy? “Smile, smile! Let me kiss your dimples. Where are they—those dimples?” They revealed themselves and vanished. He tore himself away. Looking back again and again, he saw her erect and smiling bravely. She smiled till he was out of sight. * * * * * Protest met him from three sets of lips, as he came back to his family. Where had he been? Why had he skipped tea? The Squire said jovially: “Very sound! Tea, after a Sunday luncheon, is an insult to one’s dinner. The walk has done the boy good. Our air on the high ground is the best in England. Look at the rascal! His eyes are sparkling. But we missed you. Didn’t we?” He appealed to Margot. She assented, with less sprightliness than usual, trying to account for the light in the absentee’s eyes. Lady Pomfret remained silent, lacking the Squire’s faith in Nether-Applewhite air. She divined that something had happened. What? Exercise might have quickened friendship for their visitor into love. Lionel radiated resolution. His laugh rang out crisply. He stood facing them, with his chin at a conqueror’s angle. He wanted to tell the truth then and there. He told it in his own way. “I have had a wonderful afternoon.” Margot said quickly, with a derisive inflection: “There are moments when Lionel cannot bear the society of women.” Lionel retorted emphatically: “A clean miss!” “Who is she?” asked Margot. “Name—name?” He met her instantly. Never had she seen him so alert, so joyous. “Ah! Our Forest has its nymphs. They show themselves to the Faithful. They dance with the pixies down our glades. Perhaps I met Euphrosyne.” The Squire was delighted. He made sure that a seasonable word had fallen upon fruitful soil. And any allusion to poets whom he had read—Milton was one amongst few—provoked capping. He chuckled: “Euphrosyne, b’ Jove! Heart-easing Mirth. I met the nymph,” he glanced at Lady Pomfret, “in a London ball-room, and grabbed her.” “And tore her gown,” added Lady Pomfret. “She forgave me sweetly, tearing my heart in two.” Margot beckoned to Lionel, who sat down beside her. She said mockingly: