Miss Percival, at about nine o'clock, came gently down one of these alleys, with a scarf over her head and shoulders. She looked like a nymph in Tanagra. And as if she knew where she was going, exactly, she walked gently but unfalteringly between the linked crocus-beacons to where the alley broadened into a bay of cut yews, to where ghostly white seats and a dim sun-dial seemed disposed as for a scene in a comedy. The leaden statue of a skipping faun would have been made out in a recess if you had known it was there. And as she entered the place a figure seated there, with elbows on knees and chin between his palms, looked up, listening, watching intently, then rose and waited. “Struan,” said Miss Percival comfortably, “are you there?” “I'm here,” she was answered. Thereupon she came easily forward and stood near him. She was in white from top to toe; he could see the clean outline of her head and neck, denned by the hooding scarf. He had not as yet taken off his hat, but now, as she stood there silent, he slowly removed it. Still there was nothing said. Miss Percival was very deliberate. Presently she spoke. “You didn't tell me this afternoon that you'd had a bother with Mr. Menzies. Why didn't you tell me?” “Why should I tell you?” The words seemed wrung from him. “Why should you care?” “Of course I care,” she said. “You know that I care. Why didn't you tell me? ... But I know why you didn't.” “You do not.” He denied her hotly. “Oh, but I do. Because you were ashamed.” “It was not. I'm not ashamed. He's an old fool. He thinks he can teach me my business. Melons! Plants! Why, I'm one of them. What can he teach me?” “He's a very good gardener,” Miss Percival began, but the rest was drowned. “Gardener--he! He's a botcher. He measures his melons by the pound. It's money he wants, money-value. So much dung--so much meat. He says, 'Be careful, you, of the water-pot; go steady with your syringe. You'll damp off those plants it you're not handy,' he tells me. To me, this! Don't I know what the life of a plant must have, and how, and where it must be fed? He's an old fool, and you know it. And I'll not be told things I have got by heart before a lad new to his breeches. Besides,” he added darkly, “he'd vexed me before that, and bitterly.” “How did he vex you?” Miss Percival's voice came cool and clear, but commanding. “That I cannot tell you,” said he. “But I want to know.” This seemed to her sufficing reason. But he was dogged. “Then I can't help you. You cannot be told.” “But perhaps I ought to be told. Do you think I ought?” “Indeed, I don't know.” “Well, will you tell me?” “I will not, indeed. That is, I cannot.” “It's very extraordinary.” He made no answer. “Struan,” said Miss Percival, after a while, “you are angry.” He turned quickly. “With you? Never.” “I didn't say that. I said you were angry.” He said, “Ah--and so I am.” “I am included, I suppose.” “You are not. It could not be.” She laughed. “I don't know---”