“Well, I’m rather glad we’re alone,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m awfully late, but I couldn’t help it. Etta kept me such a confounded time--bush-beating--and then I had to send off the tutor, who’s a beast--and has frightened the little chap silly about you; and altogether it’s been rather a rough passage.” “Poor Horace,” said Edith softly, “what a shame! But you mustn’t be worried; we’ll straighten it all out between us somehow.” “But you won’t like it--you won’t like it, Edith!” he exclaimed, looking at her with helpless, appealing eyes. It was a look which women who love know how to answer--when they are loved in return. Edith drew a sudden quick breath, then she said: “My dear boy, I didn’t expect we’d get everything all at once; it wouldn’t be any fun if we did. Why, it’s a regular campaign, and this is the first skirmish.” “No, it’s defeat, Edith,” he said, more quietly. “I’m afraid it’s defeat.” “Then tell me,” she answered. “I can bear defeat, Horace.” He looked into her honest, gallant eyes and blessed her; he blessed her for her courage; and he might have kissed her if he had thought about it. He told her about the boy’s delicacy and the doctor’s orders. She asked him one question: “If you hadn’t met me, could you have lived with him in the country?” “Oh, no!” said Horace. “I couldn’t get up to town and back from Mallows for my work--we should have had to be parted.” They were both silent for a little, then she drew his hand up against her cheek. “We’ll go down all your holidays to Mallows,” she said. “Every single one, Horace!” “But don’t you--don’t you mind?” he stammered, puzzled. Edith turned her eyes on his, still smiling. “We’ve got to mind,” she murmured; “but may I just see him first?” “Yes, of course, to-morrow,” said Horace quickly. “I think the whole thing’s rather devilish, you know, Edith. I can’t quite follow it. They never told me before about the little chap, and they seem to have turned him against the very idea of you and all that, you know; and he’s such a loving little fellow really, and he said he wanted to go away and leave me--” Horace’s voice broke and Edith winced. She looked away from him, and he recovered himself in a moment. “And Etta has got hold of some wild tale about you,” he went on. “I don’t like to speak to you about it, dear--it’s all a stupid bottomless impertinence--but, of course, I had to tell her I’d ask you.” “You may ask me anything you like, Horace.” “Thank you, darling! Do you know I always thought you were awfully sensible, but I never knew how sensible you were before to-night.” Edith gave a long, low laugh. “Sensible? I’m so glad you think I’m sensible, Horace!” she murmured. “Yes, I do,” he said with admiring emphasis. “I think you’re the most sensible woman I ever met.” Edith stopped laughing. “And the story, Horace?”