“And when do we congratulate you?” he asked, pursuing the _rôle_ of his privilege. “There could hardly be a better match—young Templar’s exciting enough to make any maiden heart beat faster.” It was no less than she could have wished. He saved her the trouble of leading up to the subject. “I was just going to ask you what you thought of it,” she remarked. “Then may I first make the conventional felicitations?” “Not yet. I came to ask your opinion to help me decide.” “But surely your aunt is the proper person——” “I’ve already asked her. Now I want your advice as well.” He tilted the battered Trilby further over his ear. “This is a horrible responsibility to have thrust upon one,” he complained. “Even the aged and presumably wise have been known to err in their verdicts upon the rising generation. Still, if you insist. . . . Well, the first objection you must face is that every other woman he meets will want to take him away from you. Dark, dare-devil, romantic fire-eaters like him are scarce these days, and the few there are can take their pick. Not that I don’t thoroughly agree with his choice. But——” “Perhaps,” she suggested sweetly, “there might be a quite averagely nice man who would want to take me away from Mr. Templar. I don’t want to seem conceited, but you can’t have it all your way.” He stared, then laughed. “That’s a point of view,” he admitted. “Now let’s go and sit in the shade and be serious,” she pleaded. “And just when we’re nearly coming to blows you can give me some tea and I shall collapse.” They walked over to a couple of wicker chairs that stood under a tree at the side of the house. “Are you really serious?” he questioned as they settled themselves. She nodded. “Absolutely. And you’re so old and clever I’m sure you can help.” He grimaced. “You needn’t rub in the patriarchal part,” he said, “though I admit it myself. But you may spread yourself on the subject of my first-class brain. And what am I to say? I know less about young Templar than you do.” “People say all sorts of things about him.” Lapping looked reproachful. “Was there ever a village that didn’t say all sorts of things about inhabitants who weren’t utterly commonplace—and rumours even spring up about the most prosaic people.” She shook her head. “It isn’t all rumour,” she said. Then, as Simon had recommended, she told the whole story of the previous night’s events, omitting very little. She told him about Bittle’s amazing announcement and ultimatum, and about Agatha Girton’s confirmation of the millionaire’s statement. She dwelt at length on the Saint’s irregular behaviour, and on the curious incident at Carn’s. But she did not mention the Saint’s parting warning.