Agatha Girton had not appeared at breakfast that morning, and when Patricia returned home to buckle into the task that the Saint had entrusted to her the housekeeper told her that the lady had gone out for a walk directly after lunch without saying when she might be expected back. Miss Girton often went for long tramps over the surrounding country, swinging a heavy stick and stepping out with the long, tireless stride of a veteran. In the light of her recently-acquired knowledge, Patricia now realised that Miss Girton had been growing more and more grim and taciturn of late, and that concurrently with the beginning of this moodiness those walks had been growing more protracted and more frequent. The girl saw in this the evidence of Agatha Girton’s increasing anxiety—the woman was so masculine in all things that she might be expected, in the circumstances, to fall back on the typically masculine relief of strenuous physical effort to aid mental work and at the same time to gain some peace of mind through sheer fatigue. But, though there was nothing astonishing or alarming in Agatha Girton’s hike, it was annoying because it prevented Patricia from carrying out her first promise to the Saint. Miss Girton might well stay out until dinner time, and then it would be too late to start any controversy, with the big appointment hanging in the background. However, that couldn’t be cured, so the only thing to do was to get busy on the next specimen. Patricia found Lapping pottering about in his garden, arrayed in stained tweeds, coatless, bare-armed, with an ancient felt hat on the back of his head. He looked a picture of healthy rustic late-middle-age, and the expansive good humour with which he greeted her was in keeping with his appearance. “My dear Miss Holm! We haven’t seen anything of you for far too long. How are you?” “Splendid,” she told him. “And you’re looking younger than ever.” He shook his head with a whimsical smile. “Flattery, my dear, base flattery. I’m an old man, and youth belongs to youth.” He peered quizzically at her in his short-sighted fashion. “What chance have I got for your favour against that dashing young hero of the Pill Box? No, you must leave me to my years.” “But I want to talk to you, Sir Michael,” she said, smiling back. “Can’t I even come inside the gate?” “Temptress!” he teased. “You’re a witch—but I’m too old and dusty to be vamped even by you.” But he threw down the trowel, wiped his hands on his trousers, and opened the gate for her. It was not a strain to take the Saint’s advice and treat Lapping as a sort of honorary uncle. His manner invited it. He was one of those rare and lovable neuters, of kindly wisdom and broad human sympathies, who are invariably adopted as honorary uncles by such sweet young things as Patricia. He had never married—perhaps because he was too essentially safe and comfortable and tolerant for any woman to choose him as a partner in such a wild adventure as matrimony.