Side by side we paced slowly down to the end of the box-bordered path between the pink Maman Cochets (another echo of last night!) before another word was said. Then he began. “I wanted to have this opportunity of saying something to you.” His tone was conciliatory, quiet. The expression of his face was—well, not in the least his mask of office-hours, nor the scowling barricade he put up at last night’s dinner-table; but guarded and absolutely non-committal. So was mine, I hope. I waited for him to go on. “I may tell you,” he went on, “that I’ve been regretting—” Last night, I supposed? A curious way of _putting_ it! —“regretting for some time that it was you I asked to take on this—this situation for me.” “Oh!” We turned and walked back again. “I mean,” he added quietly, “that I regret having dragged a girl of your kind, more sensitive and spirited than I had imagined—” What _had_ he imagined, then? —“into this affair.” “Oh.” “I—I suppose I ought to have known better than to ask—_you_.” “Oh,” I said, for the third time, and I meant to stop there. But somehow I couldn’t help going on rather acidly, “And which of your other employees do you wish you had asked instead? Miss Robinson?” (Who would have been provided with material for impersonations of the family Waters for the rest of her life.) —“Or Miss Holt?” (_She_, I know, would have screamed aloud when he inflicted that extraordinary kiss upon her!) “Miss Smith, of course, has her affections otherwise engaged——” “Ah? And so that would have been a barrier, would it? Even to this kind of an affair?” retorted the Governor, very quickly and looking hard at me. I knew what he meant. He was thinking of the Major’s clumsy bringing-up, yesterday, of the name of Sydney Vandeleur. So I lifted my eyes, which had been idly studying the grey pattern of shadow flung by a trellised rose-arch upon my creamy skirt, and I looked the Governor firmly in the face as I said quietly: “I imagine so.” Then _he_ said, “Oh.” And then there was another pause. Surely Mr. Waters could not break it by anything else, now, than by coming to the point—saying whatever it was he meant to say about his behaviour at the door of the den? But nothing of the kind. “You quite understand, then, that I am sorry—for bringing you into all this?” he began again. “Right. Now, I suppose I ought to offer to release you from the arrangement.” “Yes?” I looked up again quickly, hopefully. “Only, you see, I can’t,” my employer concluded, slowly. “I can’t do that. The—er—my—the reason which forced me into it is—still there.” “Oh.” Another turn. This time towards the pergola. “Another thing,” he went on—and this time I really did think I knew what was coming next. “About last night.” I didn’t say, “Oh”—I simply waited for whatever apology he thought fit to make. “Last night, in the drawing-room before dinner. I’m afraid I was rather rude.” “_Before_ dinner?” I echoed, forgetting what could have happened then.