“And what is it to do with me?” asked the gardener, who suffered from the drawbacks of his paramount virtue, enthusiasm, and never could wait for the end of anything. “Do you want me to turn into an unscrupulous rogue and dog her footsteps because——” “You can have scruples or not as you choose,” said Mr. Rust. “But rogue is a word that exasperates me. It’s much the same as ‘naughty-naughty,’ and that is worse than wickedness. The wicked live on brimstone, which is at least honest; but the naughty-naughty play with it, which is irreverent. With or without your scruples, armed only with the blessing and the promise of this place, I want you to cross the Atlantic on the _Caribbeania_ with my mother, and tell her what it is the gods and I are waiting for. That is—just try and talk the old lady round—don’t you know. Any old twaddle would do—what?” The gardener produced two halfpennies, one of which he placed on each knee. “And the fare first-class is ...” he said. “I have a cousin whose only virtue is that he occasionally serves the purpose of coin,” said Mr. Rust. “That is—I know a fellow I can bleed to a certain extent—what? He is the son of—well, a middling K-nut at the top of the shipping tree—what?” The gardener had visions of an unscrupulous rogue, neatly packed into a crate labelled champagne, being smuggled on board the _Caribbeania_. Truly the pose had possibilities. The affair was, however, vague at present, and the gardener retained, whatever the rôle he was playing, an accurate mind and a profound respect for the exactness of words. “Will he stow me away?” he asked. “Not in the way you mean. But there’ll be room for you on the _Caribbeania_. Come down to Southampton with me now. There’s a train at noon.” “I have my own feet, and a good white road,” replied the gardener in a poetic voice. “I’ll join you in Southampton this evening.” “It’s thirty-five miles,” said Mr. Rust. “And the boat sails to-morrow morning. However.... We haven’t discussed the business side of the affair yet.” “And we never will. I’ll take my payment out in miles—an excellent currency.” In spite of the distance of his destination, the gardener stood by his determination to go by road. A friendly farmer’s cart may always be depended on to assist the pose of a vagabond. It would have been extremely hackneyed to approach the opening door of life by train. So he left his blessing with the Red Place, and shook the hand of its white master, and set his face towards the sea. It was still early. The sun had set the long limbs of the tree-shadows striding about the woods; the gorse, a tamed expression of flame, danced in the yellow heat; the heather pressed like a pigmy army bathed in blood about the serene groups of pines. There was great energy abroad, which kept the air a-tingle. The gardener almost pranced along. Presently he came to a woman seated by the roadside engrossed in a box of matches.