"He's come--he's come!" cried Charlotte Wilding. "I've won my bet!" "There's another bunch higher up," murmured Clara Durrant, mounting another step of the ladder. Jacob held the ladder as she stretched out to reach the grapes high up on the vine. "There!" she said, cutting through the stalk. She looked semi-transparent, pale, wonderfully beautiful up there among the vine leaves and the yellow and purple bunches, the lights swimming over her in coloured islands. Geraniums and begonias stood in pots along planks; tomatoes climbed the walls. "The leaves really want thinning," she considered, and one green one, spread like the palm of a hand, circled down past Jacob's head. "I have more than I can eat already," he said, looking up. "It does seem absurd ..." Clara began, "going back to London...." "Ridiculous," said Jacob, firmly. "Then ..." said Clara, "you must come next year, properly," she said, snipping another vine leaf, rather at random. "If ... if ..." A child ran past the greenhouse shouting. Clara slowly descended the ladder with her basket of grapes. "One bunch of white, and two of purple," she said, and she placed two great leaves over them where they lay curled warm in the basket. "I have enjoyed myself," said Jacob, looking down the greenhouse. "Yes, it's been delightful," she said vaguely. "Oh, Miss Durrant," he said, taking the basket of grapes; but she walked past him towards the door of the greenhouse. "You're too good--too good," she thought, thinking of Jacob, thinking that he must not say that he loved her. No, no, no. The children were whirling past the door, throwing things high into the air. "Little demons!" she cried. "What have they got?" she asked Jacob. "Onions, I think," said Jacob. He looked at them without moving. "Next August, remember, Jacob," said Mrs. Durrant, shaking hands with him on the terrace where the fuchsia hung, like a scarlet ear-ring, behind her head. Mr. Wortley came out of the window in yellow slippers, trailing the Times and holding out his hand very cordially. "Good-bye," said Jacob. "Good-bye," he repeated. "Good-bye," he said once more. Charlotte Wilding flung up her bedroom window and cried out: "Good-bye, Mr. Jacob!" "Mr. Flanders!" cried Mr. Clutterbuck, trying to extricate himself from his beehive chair. "Jacob Flanders!" "Too late, Joseph," said Mrs. Durrant. "Not to sit for me," said Miss Eliot, planting her tripod upon the lawn. CHAPTER FIVE "I rather think," said Jacob, taking his pipe from his mouth, "it's in Virgil," and pushing back his chair, he went to the window.