A thing happened, a word was spoken, the like of which he had never anticipated. To defend himself laughingly against comparisons with the proverbial Lothario, to protest with burlesque earnestness against charges of susceptibility, fickleness, and extreme boldness of assault--Harry played that part well, and was well-accustomed to play it. But to suffer a challenge, to endure a taunt, to be subjected to a sneer, as a slow-coach, a faint-heart, a boy afraid to tell a girl he loved her, afraid to snatch what he desired! This was a new experience for Harry Belfield, new and unbearable. And when he had only been trying to please his father! Hang this pleasing of one's father, if it leads to things like that! He dashed up to Nutley one fine afternoon on his bicycle; he was teaching Vivien the exercise, and she was finding that even peril had its charms. But he was late for his appointment. Isobel Vintry sat alone on the terrace by the water. "How are you, Miss Vintry? I say, I'm afraid I'm late. Where's Vivien?" "You're nearly half an hour late." "Well, I know. I couldn't help it. Where is she?" "She got tired of waiting for you, and went for a walk in the wood." "She might have waited." "Well, yes. One would think she'd be accustomed to it by now," said Isobel. Her tone was lazily indolent, but her eyes were set on him in mockery. Harry looked at her with a sudden alertness. He looked at her hard. "Accustomed to waiting for me?" "Yes." She was exasperating in her malicious tranquillity, meaning more than she said, saying nothing that he could lay hold of, quite grave, and laughing at him. "Any hidden meanings, Miss Vintry?" For, as a fact, Harry had generally been punctual, and knew it. "Nothing but what's quite obvious," she retorted, dexterously fencing. "Or ought to be, to a man not so slow as I am?" "You slow, Mr. Harry! You're Meriton's ideal of reckless dash!" "Meriton's?" "That's the name of the town, isn't it? Or did you think I said London's?" Harry laughed, but he was stung; she put him on his mettle. "Oh no, I understood your emphasis." "You needn't keep her waiting any longer--while you talk about nothing to me. You'll find her in the west wood--if you want to. She left you that message." Harry had no doubt of what she meant, yet she had not spoken a word of it. The saying goes that words are given us to conceal our thoughts; has anybody ever ventured to say that lips and eyes are? Her meaning carried without speech; understanding it, Harry took fire. "I won't be late again, Miss Vintry," he said. "It would be a pity to disappoint Meriton in its ideal!" He would have liked to speak to her for a moment sincerely, to ask her if she really thought--But no, it could not be risked. She would make him feel and look ridiculous. Asking her opinion about the right moment to--to--to come up to the scratch (he could find no more dignified phrase)! Her eyes would never let him hear the end of that.