“Well, well,” he said, “I have no wish to seem crabbed. I'm sorry to lose so excellent a listener. I thought it was too good to be true! But when one has a daughter one must expect her to grow up, and become the heroine of serial stories. I trust that that story is not to be published--I can ask that, at least!” “Our intention,” said Blair, “was to give the manuscript to Miss Kent as a token of our united admiration.” “Well,” said Mr. Kent, “make my apologies to the other conspirators. I take it that that dreadful Eliza Thick was one of them. I hope our cook will be back to-morrow. Upon my word, those stuffed eggs were indescribable! Joe, my dear, suppose you let me take you up to see your aunt. I expect these people will want to recriminate each other a little, and reach some sort of misunderstanding.” Joe and Mr. Kent left the room, but a moment later Mr. Kent reappeared at the door. “Mr. Blair,” he said, “please don't think me lacking in sportsmanship. I was young once myself. I just wanted to say that I think you all staged it remarkably well. Give Mr. Carter my compliments on that telegram from the Bishop.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Blair, as Mr. Kent vanished behind the curtains. “I forgot. Those fellows are still down in the cellar.” He held out the key. “I must let them out.” “Wait a minute,” said Kathleen. “I have no desire to see that Eliza Thick again, nor that odious curate--not even the enterprising gas-man!” For the space of fifteen thoughts or so there was silence. Kathleen sat at one end of the big couch, the firelight shimmering round her in a softening glow. Blair stood painfully at the other side of the hearth. “Miss Kathleen,” he said, “I want to beg you, on behalf of the other fellows, not to be too severe with them. I guess I'm the worst offender, with my bogus telegrams and my deliberate deception of your father. But I ought to explain that we all came here with a definite intention in mind. The man who was first able to engage you in friendly conversation and get you to accept an invitation to come to Oxford for Eights Week, was to be the winner of the competition.” “I've already accepted an invitation for Eights Week,” she said, after a pause. He uttered a dejected silence that was a classic of its kind, a marvel of accurate registration. Kathleen looked up at him for the first time since his confession of the hoax. Their eyes met. “Is it Carter?” he asked, woefully. “I've promised to go and stay with Joe at Maggie Hall.” “Look here,” he said. “I expect to row in the Trinity boat. Will you and your mother and--and Miss Joe--watch the racing from our barge, one afternoon anyway? Then you could come to tea in my rooms afterward, and I'll ask the other fellows in to meet you.” “The parson and the policeman and the gas-man, and--and--Eliza Thick?” “Yes. They're all splendid chaps, I know you'll like them.”