“Just popping round to have a chat with Cornelius,” said Mr. Wrenn. “I thought I might get a game of chess.” In actual years Matthew Wrenn was on the right side of fifty; but as editors of papers like Pyke’s _Home Companion_ are apt to do, he looked older than he really was. He was a man of mild and dreamy aspect, and it being difficult to imagine him in any dashing rôle, Kay rather supposed that the energy and fire which had produced the famous elopement must have come from the lady’s side. “Well, don’t be late for dinner,” she said. “Is Willoughby in?” “I left him in the garden.” Mr. Wrenn hesitated. “That’s a curious young man, Kay.” “It’s an awful shame that he should be inflicted on you, darling,” said Kay. “His housekeeper shooed him out of his house, you know. She wanted to give it a thorough cleaning. And he hates staying at clubs and hotels, and I’ve known him all my life, and he asked me if we could put him up, and--well, there you are. But cheer up, it’s only for to-night.” “My dear, you know I’m only too glad to put up any friend of yours. But he’s such a peculiar young fellow. I have been trying to talk to him for an hour, and all he does is to look at me like a goldfish.” “Like a goldfish?” “Yes, with his eyes staring and his lips moving without any sound coming from them.” Kay laughed. “It’s his speech. I forgot to tell you. The poor lamb has got to make a speech to-night at the annual dinner of the Old Boys of his school. He’s never made one before, and it’s weighing on his mind terribly.” Mr. Wrenn looked relieved. “Oh, I didn’t know. Honestly, my dear, I thought that he must be mentally deficient.” He looked at his watch. “Well, if you think you can entertain him, I will be going along.” Mr. Wrenn went on his way; and Kay, passing through the five-barred gate, followed the little gravel path which skirted the house and came into the garden. Like all the gardens in the neighbourhood, it was a credit to its owner--on the small side, but very green and neat and soothing. The fact that, though so widely built over, Valley Fields has not altogether lost its ancient air of rusticity is due entirely to the zeal and devotion of its amateur horticulturists. More seeds are sold each spring in Valley Fields, more lawn mowers pushed, more garden rollers borrowed, more snails destroyed, more green fly squirted with patent mixtures, than in any other suburb on the Surrey side of the river. Brixton may have its Bon Marché and Sydenham its Crystal Palace; but when it comes to pansies, roses, tulips, hollyhocks and nasturtiums, Valley Fields points with pride. In addition to its other attractive features, the garden of San Rafael contained at this moment a pinkish, stoutish, solemn young man in a brown suit, who was striding up and down the lawn with a glassy stare in his eyes. “Hullo, Willoughby,” said Kay. The young man came out of his trance with a strong physical convulsion. “Oh, hullo, Kay.”