She was there, as fresh as the morning, in her blue-serge frock and sailor hat, attended by a small boy, and with the vicar's youngest daughter for her companion. She blushed as they shook hands--blushed, and then distinctly laughed; and the laugh, frank as it sounded, was the laugh of a triumphant coquette, for she was thinking of her aunt's indignation yesterday afternoon, and thinking how little it mattered her refusing a man who was so absolutely her slave. Propose to her again, forsooth? Why, of course he would propose to her again, and again, and again, as that foolish young subaltern had done at Simla. Were all men as foolish, Suzette wondered; and had all young women as much liberty of choice? She glanced involuntarily at the Vicar's youngest daughter, regarded by her family as the flower of the flock, but of a very humble degree in the floral world. A fresh-coloured, pudding-faced girl, with small eyes and a pug nose, but with a tall, well-developed figure of the order that is usually described as "fine." The golf went on in a desultory way, Allan strolling after the players, and venturing a remark now and then, as suggested by a single summer's experience at St. Andrews. When the two girls had been round the course, and it was time to hasten home to their respective breakfast-tables, he accompanied them on their way, and after having left Miss Bessie Edgefield at the Vicarage gate he had Suzette all to himself for something under a quarter of a mile. They met Mrs. Mornington a little way from Marsh House, sallying out for her morning conference with butcher and fishmonger, the business of providing Mr. Mornington's dinner being too important to be left to the hazards of cook and shopkeeper. It was necessary that Mrs. Mornington's own infallible eye should survey saddle or sirloin, and measure the thickness of turbot or sole. She greeted the two young people with jovial heartiness, and rejoiced beyond measure at seeing them together. After all, perhaps Suzette had done well in refusing the first offer. The poor young man was evidently her slave. "Or if Geoffrey should fall desperately in love with her," mused Mrs. Mornington, on her way to the village street, not quite heroic enough to put the owner of Discombe Manor altogether out of her calculations; "but, no, I shouldn't care about that. It would be too risky." That which Mrs. Mornington would not care about was the mental tendency that Geoffrey might inherit from his mother, whom the strong-minded, clear-headed lady regarded as a visionary, if not a harmless lunatic. No! Geoffrey was clever, interesting, fascinating even; but he was not to be compared with Allan, whose calm common sense had won Mrs. Mornington's warmest liking.