"I wonder who's winning the game," she said, moving towards a bush. "Perhaps we ought to go back." "But I want to talk to you," said John. "Do you?--you are a strange boy," Veronica said. "I'm not a boy--at least, no more than you are a girl," he retorted somewhat resentfully. Another silence. They came to a summer house with a table in it, on which a book was turned down. John picked it up. It was by a popular woman novelist whose sex sentimentality swamped the bookstalls. "Do you read Amelia Serkle?" she asked. "I love them." "No---I've never read her books--are you fond of reading?" "Awfully." "What do you like? Have you read Conrad?" "No." "Wells--or Bennett?" he added. "Yes--one of Bennett's--I didn't like it. I like Amelia Serkle and Helena Thinne best." "Oh," said John. She was fast losing marks. "And poetry, I adore poetry!" she said ecstatically. "So do I," said John, warming. "Isn't Masefield splendid, and Thompson and Swinburne--" "I haven't read any of those, I think. I like Laurence Hope, and oh, I love Ella Wheeler Wilcox! Do you know her 'Poems of Passion?'" "I looked at them--once," said John. There was no hope left in his voice. He did not disguise the fact very successfully. "We'd better go back," she said. They joined the others, who had finished their set. It was late and Marsh suggested going. "Good-bye," he said, at the end of the drive, down which Veronica accompanied them. Even then John marvelled at her beauty, enhanced by the setting of those elms and the old manor house. "Good-bye," she said, offering John her hand. "Good-bye," he responded. And as he said the word it was obvious that they had lost all interest in each other. It really was "Good-bye," and neither minded. Half a mile from the house, walked in comparative silence, Marsh burst into laughter. "What's the joke?" asked John. "I can't help laughing at that poor kid--she's so crude." "Who--Veronica--why?" "I'm wondering how many romances she's killed in the gooseberry bushes." John glanced angrily at Marsh, and then the humour of it caught him and he laughed also. "How did you guess?" he asked. "Because I've shut my eyes and opened my mouth," said Marsh. "Poor old Veronica. She is a flirt! If only she had brains--just a few. And there are a lot like her. Now, I'll tell you of a girl that's my type, jolly sensible too. I want to see more of her next Prize Day." "Who?" asked John interested. "Vernley's sister," replied Marsh. "Oh--yes," said John, knocking down a nettle with a swish of his tennis racquet. Then came the end. The train drew away from Loughboro Station. John's father leaned back in his seat while John hung out of the window, waving to Teddie and Mr. and Mrs. Marsh on the platform, until the arch of the bridge shut them from sight. John sank back into his seat. "Aren't they jolly, Dad!" he cried. "Splendid, old son,--you make good friends." III