When Saturday finally did arrive, Michael did not sit reading Verlaine, but wandered from tree-trunk to tree-trunk like Orlando in despair. Then Lily came at last sedately, and brought the good news that to-morrow Michael should come to tea at her house. “But where does your mother think we met?” he asked in perplexity. “Oh, I told her it was in Kensington Gardens,” said Lily carelessly. “But doesn’t she think I must be an awful bounder?” “Why, you silly, I told her you were at St. James’ School.” “But I never told you I was at school,” exclaimed Michael, somewhat aghast. “I know you didn’t, and you never told me that you weren’t eighteen yet.” “I am in a month or two,” said Michael. “But, good Lord, who have you been talking to?” “Ah, that’s the greatest secret in the world,” laughed Lily. “Oh, no, do tell me.” “Well, I know a boy called Drake who knows you.” “That beast!” cried Michael. “I think he’s quite a nice boy. He lives next door to us and——” Michael kicked angrily the dead leaves lying about his feet, and almost choked with astonished fury. “Why, my dear girl, he’s absolutely barred. He’s as unpopular as anybody I know. I hope you won’t discuss me with that hulking brute. What the deuce right has he got to tell you anything about me?” “Because I asked him, and you needn’t look so enraged, because if you want to know why you’re coming to tea, it’s because I asked Arthur——” “Who’s Arthur?” growled Michael. “Arthur Drake.” “Go on,” said Michael icily. “I shan’t go on, if you look like that.” “I can’t help how I look. I don’t carry a glass round with me,” said Michael. “So I suppose this worm Drake had the cheek to tell your mother I was all right. Drake! Wait till I see the brute on Monday morning.” “Well, if you take my advice,” said Lily, “you’ll be nice to him, because he’s supposed to have introduced us.” “What lies! What lies!” Michael stamped. “You told me a lie about your age,” Lily retorted. “And I’ve told mother a lie on your account, so you needn’t be so particular. And if you think you’re going to make me cry, you’re not.” She sat down on a seat and looked out at the bare woodland with sullen eyes. “Has Drake ever dared to make love to you?” demanded Michael. “That’s my business,” said Lily. “You’ve no right to ask me questions like that.” Michael looked at her so adorable even now, and suddenly throwing his dignity to the dead leaves, he sat close beside her caressingly. “Darling Lily,” he whispered, “it was my fault. I lied first. I don’t care how much you talked about me. I don’t care about anything but you. I’ll even say Drake is a decent chap—though he really isn’t even moderately decent. Lily, we had such a rotten Wednesday, and to-day ought to be perfect. Will you forgive me? Will you?” And the quarrel was over. “But you don’t care anything about Drake?” Michael asked, when half an hour had dreamed itself away.