"Then Richard may have the morning," said Guy. "And I hope you'll arrange everything between him and Margaret so successfully that he won't steal any more hours from me." When Pauline had left Guy that evening she thought how strangely it had been like meeting him for the first time all over again. Or rather it was as if they had walked a long way down the wrong road and were now beginning to walk somewhat tentatively along what she hoped was surely the right road at last. Her duty was above all to help Guy with the material burdens: she must never again let him think that his debts or his prospects had any power to worry her. Merely most tactfully must she try to keep him from extravagance, and, oh dear, how she hoped that he had not bought her an expensive birthday present. It was too late to say anything about it now, but if Guy had been wisely economical, how happy she would be. How she hoped too that Richard had not brought home from India a present that would annoy Margaret. Really it was a most oppressive business, this week before her coming of age, for between Guy's extravagance and Richard's ... well, it was really not so much bad taste as Indian taste. She would love anything he gave her of course, but perhaps he would consult beforehand with Margaret. Dear Richard, he was so sweet and touching, and if only he had not brought her something very elaborately carved. She met him next morning half way to Fairfield, and two years were obliterated as she kept pace with his long stride when they turned aside from the high road and tramped upward over the grassy wold. "Richard, isn't it very hot in India?" He nodded. "And didn't you ever get used to walking a bit more slowly in India?" He laughed. "You lazy little thing. I thought you and Aunt Verney had been in training at Scarborough. Come on, let's sit down then." They sat down, and Richard drew with his stick in the close turf. "Is that your bridge?" Pauline asked with all the interest she could put into her voice. He laughed for a long time. "Pauline, you villain, it's the beginning of Margaret's face!" She clapped her hands. "Oh, Richard, aren't I a villain? But, you know, it's not very frightfully like anything, is it?" "Pauline," he said suddenly in that sharp voice in which two years ago he had entrusted his interests to her before he went away. "Pauline, is Margaret going to marry me?" "Why, of course she is, Richard." "Has she spoken to you about me?" "But you know she never speaks about her own affairs and that she can't bear anybody else to speak of them to her." "Then how do you know?" he asked. "Well, perhaps because I'm so much in love with Guy," Pauline whispered. "I don't see how that quite works. I'm a very dull sort of a chap after that Guy of yours."