He could, when he liked, be perfectly delightful, and he was going to like that afternoon, she knew. He was the best fun in the world. Poor thing! He would be hungry! He had no breakfast. And he sat in front of the window, smiling and humming a little tune to himself. The sun wrapped his body round with its heat, all the live things in the world were calling to him. He saw in front of him endless stretches of country, alive, shining in the sun. He stared in front of him. It was market-day, and the market-place was crowded. Janet loved it, and her cheeks were flushed as she passed through the line of booths. As they crossed in front of the tower she saw that some one was leaning over the stall talking to the old fruit woman. Her heart began to beat furiously; he was wearing no cap, and she heard his laugh. He turned round suddenly as though he knew who it was. The light suddenly flamed in his eyes, and he came forward: “Good morning, Mr. Morelli,” he said. In all the crowded market-place she was the only thing that he saw. She was dressed in a white muslin with red roses on it, and over her arm was slung the basket with the lunch; her hair escaped in little golden curls from under her broad hat. But she found that she didn’t know what to say. This was a great surprise to her, because when she had thought about him in her room, alone, she had always had a great deal to say, and a great many questions to ask. But now she stood in the sun and hung her head. Morelli watched them both. Tony stammered. “Good-morning, Miss Morelli. I—I can’t take off my cap because I haven’t got one. Isn’t it a ripping day?” He held out his hand and she took it, and then they both laughed. The old woman behind them in her red peaked hat screamed, “A-pples and O-ranges! Fine ripe grapes!” “We’re going out for a picnic, father and I,” said Janet at last. “We’ve got lunch in this basket. It’s a day that you can’t be in doors, simply!” “Oh! I know,” he looked hungrily at the basket, as though he would have loved to have proposed coming as well. “Yes, it’s a great day.” Then he looked at her and started. She had been crying. She was smiling and laughing, but he could see that she had been crying. The mere thought of it made his blood boil; who had made her cry? He looked quickly at Morelli; was it he? Perhaps it was Miss Minns? or perhaps she wasn’t well, but he must know if she were unhappy; he would find out. “I was thinking of coming to call this afternoon, Mr. Morelli,” he said, “Maradick and I . . . but if you are going to spend the day in the woods, another day——”