The squire said nothing, but stretched out his hand and grasped his cousin’s in silence. Sir Douglas turned away as their fingers unloosened and threw himself into his chair again. “I shall stay with you for a week or two, Sholto,” he went on, presently. “I want to make friends with Stuart--and then I shall disappear. I trust your wife will not be alarmed at my rough appearance; I believe I have some decent coats among my things--I must look them out.” “Constance will welcome you warmly,” though he shifted his papers nervously about as he spoke. “More especially when she knows what has brought me,” was Sir Douglas’ muttered thought. Then he turned the conversation on other things; and the two men were soon lost in an argument, talking as easily and naturally as though fifteen days, not years, had elapsed since their last meeting. Meanwhile, away in the Weald grounds, the picnic was progressing well. Margery had spread her snow-white cloth on the turf and placed the dainty cakes and apples upon it; and, despite Stuart’s grumbling, he ate heartily of the simple repast. “I call this heavenly!” he exclaimed, as he lay on the grass, leaning on his elbow, and watched Margery feed the dogs. “It is nice,” she agreed, turning her great sapphire eyes on him; “but I do all the work and you picnic, Mr. Stuart. I am afraid you are very lazy.” “I know I am,” confessed the young man, “but you forget how hard I have always worked, Margery,” he added. Margery shook her wealth of red-gold hair, and laughed a sweet, musical laugh that rang through the summer silence. “Worked,” she repeated--“you worked! I don’t believe you really know what work means.” “I do seem to have led a purposeless life when I think of it,” Stuart observed, reflectively. “The hardest day I ever had was when I went tiger-shooting.” “Tiger-shooting!” repeated the girl, paling. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, it sounds so dreadful!” “You are a little coward, Margery,” Stuart laughed. “By Jove, though, how you would have enjoyed some of the things I did! I am sure you would be a good sailor. Margery, how would you like to be out at sea and not a speck of land in sight?” “I have read of the sea; but I have never seen it,” Margery said, simply. “But I think I should like it; there must be such a grandeur and beauty in rolling waves and great moving waters. I wish you would tell me something about it, Mr. Stuart.” Stuart moved into a sitting position and leaned his back against the trunk of a giant tree. “I shall have to write a book about my travels, and dedicate it to you,” he said, lightly.