Mr. Vyner shook his head, and, helping himself to another cigarette, proffered the case to the worker, and, on that gentleman calling attention to the grimy condition of his hands, stuck one in his mouth and lit it for him. Considerably mollified by these attentions, the amateur gardener resumed his labours with a lighter heart. Joan Hartley, returning half an hour later, watched them for some time from an upper window, and then, with a vague desire to compel the sprawling figure on the bench to get up and do a little work, came slowly down the garden. “You are working too hard, Mr. Saunders,” she remarked, after Mr. Vyner had shaken hands and the former had pleaded the condition of his. “He likes it,” said Mr. Vyner. “At any rate, it has got to be finished,” said Mr. Saunders. Miss Hartley looked at them, and then at the work done and the heap of plants still to go in. She stood tapping the ground thoughtfully with her foot. “I expect that we are only interrupting him by standing here talking to him,” said Robert Vyner, considerately. “No doubt he is wishing us anywhere but here; only he is too polite to say so.” Ignoring Mr. Saunders’s fervent protestations, he took a tentative step forward, as though inviting Miss Hartley to join him; but she stood firm. “Will you give me the trowel, please?” she said, with sudden decision. Before Mr. Saunders could offer any resistance she took it from him, and stooping gracefully prepared to dig. Mr. Vyner interposed with some haste. “Allow me,” he said. Miss Hartley placed the trowel in his hands at once, and with her lips curved in a slight smile stood watching his efforts. By almost imperceptible degrees she drew away from him and, attended by the devoted Mr. Saunders, sauntered slowly about the garden. The worker, glaring sideways, watched them as they roamed from flower to flower. The low murmur of their voices floated on the still air, and once or twice he heard Miss Hartley laugh with great distinctness. Apparently engrossed with his task, Mr. Vyner worked cheerfully for ten minutes. The hand that held the trowel was so far fairly clean, and he was about to use it to take out a cigarette when he paused, and a broad smile spread slowly over his features. He put down the trowel, and, burrowing in the wet earth with both hands, regarded the result with smiling satisfaction. The couple came toward him slowly, and Mr. Saunders smiled in his turn as he saw the state of the other’s hands. “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Vyner, standing up as Miss Hartley came close; “I wish you would do something for me.” “Yes?” said Joan. “I want a cigarette.” The girl looked puzzled. “Yes?” she said again. Mr. Vyner, grave as a judge, held up his disgraceful hands. “They are in a case in the inside pocket of my coat,” he said, calmly. Miss Hartley drew back a pace. “Perhaps Mr. Saunders could help you,” she said, hastily. Mr. Vyner shook his head. “His hands are worse than mine,” he said, mournfully.