It was half-past eight when I left home to go to Derryaghy, but at the corner of the Bryansford Road I met Willie Breen and stopped to get particulars about our meeting to-morrow night. I did not mention the Dales because I was almost sure that in the end Katherine would not come, and in the midst of our talk he broke off abruptly with: “Here’s your fine friends,” delivered half-contemptuously. At the same time he stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled off whistling. I wheeled round to face Miss Dick and Katherine and Gerald coming towards me. I raised my straw hat. “We’re just going as far as the station and back,” said Katherine. “We thought we’d meet you.” I dropped with her a little behind the others and walked as slowly as I could. “I got your letter,” she went on, simply. “It was very nice of you to write, but I hope you didn’t want an answer. Letters are beyond me.” “You weren’t angry?” I asked, timidly. “No. What was there to be angry about? Of course, I couldn’t make out what it all meant: you didn’t intend me, I suppose, to take it quite seriously: but it seemed very flattering and poetic.... I was sorry we weren’t in when you came for us. Tell me what you did with yourself all afternoon.” “I walked out to the old graveyard and sat there,” I replied. “How cheerful!” “It was rather: at any rate I liked it.... Let us go along here,” I added. “We can get home round this way. It is a good deal longer, but―― Do you mind?” “Not if it doesn’t keep us too late.” “I have been thinking about the artist’s apprentice,” I began. “Do you smell the meadow-sweet?” “The artist’s apprentice? Oh, yes! Well, what were you thinking about him?” “That he must paint your portrait.” “But can he?” “He can try, like other apprentices.” “When?” “Any time. To-morrow.” “Really? Do you paint?” “Only a little in water-colours. I’ve not had any lessons.” “And you’ve made pictures?” “No, just a few sketches. I never finish anything. Just something to remind me of――things.” “You must show them to me.” “If you like; but you won’t see anything in them; nobody ever does. They’re only meant for myself――and they’re no use anyway.” “What did you really mean by your letter, Peter?” “I don’t know――burn it. I meant everything that’s there, but I’m not sure now what _is_ there. After I had written it I went out and lay down on the golf-links and listened to the sea.... Would you like me to take you to my old graveyard? I expect you’ll be going to church there on Sunday.” “Do you mean now?” “Yes. It’s not far away――just across those fields.” We walked on through the scented darkness. “I don’t know that I like graveyards,” said Katherine, doubtfully. “I don’t either――new ones――but this is very old.”