“I think we’ve had quite enough nonsense for one evening,” remarked Agatha Girton. “Everyone’s a bundle of nerves. Is there any need for all this excitement?” She herself had lost her usual sangfroid. Under the mask of grim disapproval she was badly shaken—Patricia saw the slight trembling of the big rough hand that held the limp cigarette. “Right as per,” agreed Algy weakly. “Sorry, Aunt Agatha.” Miss Girton was absurdly pettish. “I decline to adopt you as a nephew, Mr. Lomas-Coper.” “Sorry, Aunt—Miss Girton. I’ll tool along.” Patricia smiled and patted his hand as she said good-bye, but the ordinarily super-effervescent Algy had gone off the boil. He contrived a sickly smile, but he was clearly glad of an excuse to leave the scene of his _faux pas_. “Come and see us to-morrow,” invited Patricia, and he nodded. “Most frightfully sorry, and all that rot,” he said. “I never did have much of a brain, anyway. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, or anything, y’know. What? Cheer-tiddly-ho!” He offered a hand to Miss Girton, but she looked down her nose at it and turned away. “Honk-honk!” said Algy feebly, and departed. They heard the front door close with a click, and were impressed with Mr. Lomas-Coper’s humility. Among his more normal habits was that of slamming doors with a mighty bang. “You were very hard on Algy,” said Patricia resentfully. “I can’t be bothered with the fool,” responded Miss Girton brusquely. “Thank Heavens he swallowed that wild yarn of yours about falling off a cliff. If he’d had any brains, the whole village would have been talking about you to-morrow. Now, what’s the truth?” Patricia looked at her watch again. The time was crawling. Eleven-thirty. She looked up and responded: “That yarn’s as good as another.” “Not for me.” Agatha Girton came and stood over the girl. She looked very forbidding and masculine at that moment, and Patricia had a fleeting qualm of fear. “What happened at Bittle’s?” “Oh, nothing. . . . He told me that the only way to save you was for me to marry him.” “Did he?” said Miss Girton harshly. “The swine!” “Aunt Agatha!” “You make me sick! He is a swine—why shouldn’t I say so? And with an adjective, if I choose. Why didn’t you tell him so yourself? What did you say?” “I——” Patricia pulled herself up. The Saint’s volcanic arrival had ended the discussion somewhat abruptly. “I didn’t know what to say,” answered Patricia truthfully. Miss Girton glowered down at the girl. “And then he got fresh?” “Not—not exactly. You see——” “Then who did?” Patricia covered her eyes. “Oh, leave me alone! Tell me how you got into his debt.”