It was all quite easy. She had taken off her coat and hat in Gracie's room; Joey made her way there--hurried into her things, and ran downstairs. She only met one servant; the place was in a dozy, Sunday-afternoon condition. She got out at a side door, and, avoiding the front drive, where she thought she might be seen and stopped, she darted away over well-kept lawns, crossed the ha-ha at a jump, and landed in the park. Here she slightly slackened her headlong pace--nobody would see her among the trees--and began to compose her letter of apology to Cousin Greta. She supposed she was being dreadfully rude, and it was a rudeness which would be horribly difficult to explain, without complaining of Gracie--naturally an unspeakable idea. She had only got as far as "Dear Cousin Greta,--I hope I was not very rude, but ..." when she cleared the park, and crossed the straight marsh road. She had decided to go by the fields, in case somebody should be sent after her. If she kept in a line with the road, even at a distance of half a mile or so on the sea-ward side, she would be quite safe, she thought. She gave a glance around her to make sure of the lie of the land; it was all quite easy, for the October afternoon was clear, and a peculiar transparent luminosity lay on the glittering horizon. Then she plunged forward, concocting her letter to Cousin Greta as she went. It must certainly be written and sent off to-night, for there was no question about it, she had been disgracefully rude. Only she couldn't go on being a nuisance to people who didn't want her and invited her out only from a sense of duty. "DEAR COUSIN GRETA,--I hope I was not very rude, but I found I had to get back earlier than I expected, and ... and ... I didn't want to disturb you as you were lying down." Joey didn't know that in the struggle to compose that difficult letter of apology to Cousin Greta she had diverged a little from the straight line that she had fixed for herself, and was bearing down farther from the road with every step she took. The letter took a great deal of pumping out; one had to try and be truthful, and at the same time no telltale. When politeness had to come in as well, it made each sentence most terribly difficult, and Joey wrestled with that letter in much affliction of spirit, and went farther and farther out of her way without ever seeing where she was going. The bit about not wanting to disturb Cousin Greta was not absolutely true, because Joey had been really glad she had been lying down; still, perhaps it might pass--one couldn't say one was glad anyway. "It was very kind of you to have me out," Joe went on; "thank you most awfully. About my going back to Redlands alone. I always go about alone at home, unless one of the others happens to be with me, so I hope you won't mind that. I'm not a kid, you know. "Your affectionate cousin, "JOEY."