It was a long time since a handsome man had shared a secret with Miss Gilletson. Who knows, indeed, whether such a thing had ever happened? Or whether Miss Gilletson had once just dreamed that some day it might--and had gone on dreaming for long, long days, till even the dream had slowly and sadly faded away? For sometimes it does happen like that. Lynborough meant nothing--but no possible effort (supposing he made it) could enable him to look as if he meant nothing. One thing at least he did mean--to make himself very pleasant to Miss Gilletson. Interested knave! It is impossible to avoid that reflection. Yet let ladies in their turn ask themselves if they are over-scrupulous in their treatment of one man when their affections are set upon another. He showed Miss Gilletson all the family tombs. He escorted her from the church. Under renewed vows of secrecy he induced her to enter Scarsmoor. Once in the gardens, the good lady was lost. They had no such roses at Nab Grange! Lynborough insisted on sending an enormous bouquet to the Vicar’s wife in Miss Gilletson’s name--and Miss Gilletson grew merry as she pictured the mystification of the Vicar’s wife. For Miss Gilletson herself he superintended the selection of a nosegay of the choicest blooms; they laughed again together when she hid them in a large bag she carried--destined for the tea and tobacco which represented her little charities. Then--after pausing for one private word in his gardener’s ear, which caused a boy to be sent off post-haste to the stables--he led her to the road, and in vain implored her to honour his house by setting foot in it. There the fear of the Marchesa or (it is pleasanter to think) some revival of the sense of youth, bred by Lynborough’s deferential courtliness, prevailed. They came together through his lodge gates; and Miss Gilletson’s face suddenly fell. “That wretched gate!” she cried. “It’s locked--and I haven’t got the key.” “No more have I, I’m sorry to say,” said Lynborough. He, on his part, had forgotten nothing. “It’s nearly two miles round by the road--and so hot and dusty!--Really Helena does cut off her nose to spite her face!” Though, in truth, it appeared rather to be Miss Gilletson’s nose the Marchesa had cut off. A commiserating gravity sat on Lord Lynborough’s attentive countenance. “If I were younger, I’d climb that wall,” declared Miss Gilletson. “As it is--well, but for your lovely flowers, I’d better have gone the other way after all.” “I don’t want you to feel that,” said he, almost tenderly. “I must walk!” “Oh no, you needn’t,” said Lynborough. As he spoke, there issued from the gates behind them a luxurious victoria, drawn by two admirable horses. It came to a stand by Lynborough, the coachman touching his hat, the footman leaping to the ground. “Just take Miss Gilletson to the Grange, Williams. Stop a little way short of the house. She wants to walk through the garden.” “Very good, my lord.”