“I have no glue in me,” replied the gardener. “I’m glad of it; there could be nothing duller than sticking to one thing. Besides, there’s nothing left to stick to. There was only half an hour’s work to do yesterday, although I spent three hours over it.” Mrs. Rust shot a fountain of tobacco smoke into the air as a sign that she intended to speak. The priest liked Mrs. Rust, because his own tolerance of her vagaries made him feel so broad-minded. He liked to smile at her roguishly when she took a small whisky and soda; he liked to hand her the matches when she smoked; he liked to write to his sister at home: “One comes in contact with a worldly set out here, but if one is careful to keep one’s mind open, one finds points of contact undreamt of at home in one’s own more thoughtful set.” If the gardener had been a drunkard instead of being in love, the priest would have liked him better. But the gardener posed as being a non-drinker and a non-smoker on principle. Really the taste of spirits or of tobacco smoke made him feel sick. “I am going to leave Union Town myself,” said Mrs. Rust. “I know of a car I could hire to-morrow. I will help you in your search, gardener, although she strikes me as being a totally unattractive young woman.” “We had arranged to go to the hotel in Spanish City next Wednesday by the nine train,” said Courtesy in a reproachful voice; “and from there to Alligator Bay, and then in a car round the Island. I daresay other plans might be made, but you should have let me know sooner.” “No plans need be made,” said the gardener rebelliously. “We might just get the car, and start now in the cool.” “Ass!” observed Courtesy simply. “Mrs. Rust’s lace scarf won’t be dry enough to iron till to-morrow. I will see whether we can start the next day.” To disobey Courtesy was unthinkable. The gardener gritted his teeth at the stars, because he would have to see them again before he could start on his search. _Now_ was the only time for the gardener; _then_ hardly counted; and _presently_ was a word he failed to acknowledge. “Anyway, you don’t either of you know where to look for her,” said Courtesy, that practical girl. “She’ll be at Alligator Bay,” said Mrs. Rust. “They’ve got a picture gallery there.” “She’ll be somewhere in the hills,” said the gardener. “She would always go up.” “I entirely disagree with you,” retorted Mrs. Rust. “Anyway, it seems hot on sea-level,” said Courtesy. “We’d better go up to where it’s supposed to be cool. I’m told the Ridge Pension, High Valley, has a good cook, but the New Hotel, at Greyville, is also well spoken of.”