He was just on the point of leaving his hiding-place when the sound of some one else descending the stairs made him pause. It was Miss Lestrange, looking very beautiful in a black evening dress, and with a rose worn Spanish fashion in the clouds of her dark hair. Patsy was gazing in admiration at this beautiful vision which was descending towards him when a hurried step coming _up_ the stairs was heard. It was Dicky Fanshawe, plastered with mud from top to toe; he was coming up the stairs two steps at a time. His left coat sleeve was nearly ripped out of the coat, and his face was a mask of mud. He had come a barbed wire cropper, and had been bogged beyond Shepherd’s Cross; but he did not seem hurt, and he did not seem particularly depressed with his misfortunes, for he was whistling a tune, and he had nearly cannoned against Miss Lestrange before he saw her. “Violet!” cried the young man, drawing suddenly back. “Dicky—Mr Fanshawe!” cried the girl. Then their hands met, and Patsy, behind the arras, wished that he were somewhere else. “I knew you were coming,” he said. “I knew you were here,” said she. “How did you know?” “The children told me that a Mr Fanshawe was here who was awfully jolly, and—very ugly, so I knew it must be you.” “You did not get any of the letters I wrote to you,” he said. “My uncle wrote to me and told me frankly he had intercepted them, and if I wrote again he would put you in Chancery or some nonsense; he’s always blustering and bellowing—Violet!” “Don’t, Dicky—_don’t_, Mr Fanshawe—some one may be looking, and your face is all mud.” “So it is,” said Dicky, rubbing it and looking at his hand. “Is there any on my cheek?” asked she. “Let me look—closer——” “_Dicky!_” “Go it!” murmured Patsy, behind the arras. “Give her another wan—she stickin’ her cheek out for it and thin pretendin’ to be surprised! Musha! but wimmen are all the same.” The roar of a gong and a step coming down the stairs brought matters to a swift conclusion. Miss Lestrange swept downstairs, and Mr Fanshawe rushed upstairs, nearly running into the arms of Mr Boxall on the way. When Mr Boxall had passed, and the coast was clear, Patsy left his hiding-place and betook him to Mr Fanshawe’s room. “Come in—who’s there?” cried Dicky, at the knock. “It’s me, sir; can I be getting you anything?” replied Patsy, opening the door. “Yes—here you are!” cried Dicky, who seemed in wildly high spirits. “Fetch my evening clothes out of that drawer there—that was the last gong, was it?” “Yes, sir,” replied Patsy. “The dhressing gong went half an hour ago.” “There’s no time for a bath, then,” said Mr Fanshawe, scrubbing at himself with a towel. “How have the children been behaving?” “All right, sir. After the meet we met the wagginette with some of the quality in it coming from the station, and the young lady wid the black hair got into the tub and drove home with us.”