"You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over in the open--far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne. He produced a clean silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with undignified haste. "'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung in the balance. Then-- "Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it. Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile. "At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not my cousin." "I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending." Alwynne laughed. "You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast sometimes to her, you're quite right--but she doesn't really need defending. Honestly." "Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your friend--I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see hurt." Alwynne looked at him wistfully. "Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to me--hurt me--hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose--would you defend me? Would you care at all?" "I shouldn't let 'em," he grunted. "If you couldn't help it?" "I shouldn't let 'em," he repeated doggedly. "But should you care?" "Of course I should. What rot you talk. Of course I should. But I shouldn't let them." "Oh, Roger," she cried, suddenly and pitifully, "they do hurt me sometimes--they do, they do." Roger looked around him with unusual caution. The Gardens were empty. There was not even a loafer in sight. He put his arm round her, and drew her clumsily to him. She yielded like a tired child, and lay quietly, staring with brimming eyes at the gaudy tulip-bed on the further side of the walk. "I believe you're about fed up with that school of yours," he said, after a time, as if he had not followed the allusion to Clare. She nodded. "I'm not lazy, Roger; you know it's not that. It's just the atmosphere, and the awful crowding. Such a lot of women at close quarters, all enthusiasm and fussing and importance. They're all hard-working, and all unselfish and keen--more than a crowd of men would be, I believe. But that's just it--they're dears when you get them alone, but somehow, all together, they stifle you. And they all have high voices, that squeak when they're keenest. D'you know, that was what first made me like you, Roger--your voice? It's slow, and deep, and restful--such a reasonable voice. You mustn't think me disloyal to the school. The girls are all frightfully interesting, and the women are dears, and there's always Clare--only we do get on each other's nerves."