"They may laugh, Mr. Foot, but I'm sure your mother would feel as I do." A bereavement several years old saved Billy from the suggested complication, but he glared fiercely across the table at Andy, who assumed, with difficulty, an apologetic gravity. "All my wife's fears will vanish as soon as she knows the lady," said Belfield, also anxious to make his peace with Billy. "I always yield to Mr. Belfield, but you can't deny that it's an experiment, Mr. Foot." She rose from the table, having defined the position with her usual serene and gentle self-satisfaction. Billy rose too, announcing that he would finish his cigar in the garden. His face was still red, and he was not well pleased with his host and Andy. Why will people make our own most reasonable thoughts ridiculous by their silly way of putting them? And why will other stupid people laugh at them when so presented? These reflections accompanied poor Billy as he walked and smoked. Belfield smiled. "More sentimental complications! I hope Billy Foot keeps his face better than that when he's in court. Do you think he'll rush on his fate? And what will it be?" "Oh, I don't know, sir," Andy answered. "I really haven't thought about it. I don't think she cares for him in that sort of way, though they're awfully good friends." "You seem to manage to keep heart-whole, Andy?" "Oh, I've no time to do anything else," he laughed. "Take care; Cupid resents defiance. I've a notion you stand very well with the lady in question yourself." "I? Oh, the idea's never entered my head." "I don't say it's entered hers. The pretty rogue told me she never fell in love, and made me wish I was thirty years younger, and free to test her. But she's very fond of you, Andy." "I think what she told you about herself is true. She said something like it to me too. But I'm glad you think she likes me. I like her immensely. Outside this house, she's my best friend, I think, not counting old Jack Rock, of course." "I believe Vivien would dispute the title with her. She thinks the world of you." "I say, Mr. Belfield, you'll turn my head. Seriously, I should be awfully happy to think that true. There's nobody--well, nobody in the world I'd rather be liked by." "Yes, I think I know that," said Belfield. "And I'm glad to think she's got such a friend, if she ever needs one." A silence followed. Belfield was thinking of Vivien, thinking that she would have been in safer hands with Andy than with his son Harry; glad, as he had said, to know that she would have such a friend left to her after his own precarious lease of life was done. Andy was thinking too, but not of Vivien, not of sentimental complications--not even of Harry's. Yet the thought which he was pursuing in his mind was not altogether out of relation to Harry, though the relation was one that he did not consciously trace. "Back to work next week, sir!" he said. "Gilly's clamouring for me. I've had a splendid holiday."