Even with Fay--who was dearer to me than life itself--I seemed to do the wrong thing. And yet this time I could not see where I had blundered. She certainly said that she wanted a green Prayer Book with her name written in it. CHAPTER XI IN JUNE Frank came home from Oxford early in June--nominally to read with Blathwayte during the Long; and then we had indeed a merry time at Restham, the maddest, merriest time I ever had in my life, before or since. In fact, the whole of the summer was as a midsummer night's dream to me. I suggested that although Frank had to work at the Rectory for such part of the day as he deigned to waste upon study, there was no reason why he should not render his home at the Manor. I thought that, this arrangement would make the house more cheerful for Fay; for--though she was far too sweet and unselfish ever to betray such a feeling--I could not help being conscious that the society of two such middle-aged fogies as Annabel and myself was but poor company for a girl of nineteen. Of course Fay was delighted at this suggestion of mine, and Annabel not much less so. If my sister had a soft place in her heart, except the one reserved for me, that place was most certainly occupied by Frank Wildacre. To my surprise the only person who did not approve of this arrangement was Ponty. "So I hear Mr. Wildacre is coming to live here now," she said to me one morning, in her most ungracious manner; "the Manor will soon be as full of couples as Noah's Ark." "But I thought you were fond of Mr. Wildacre," I feebly urged. "So I am, Sir Reginald--in his proper place: just as I am of Miss Annabel. But things out of their own place are worse than useless, as the woman said when she found the cat in the tea-kettle." Ponty never addressed me as "Sir Reginald" unless I was in dire disgrace with her. "And he will be such nice company for her ladyship," I went on, ashamed of my own cowardice, yet persisting in it. My passion for peace at any price has always been one of my most unworthy characteristics. I envy those people who can annoy their fellows without turning a hair. "Of course, Sir Reginald, you are master in your own house--at least, you ought to be," said Ponty darkly; "and if you are set on spending your married life in playing 'Oranges and Lemons,' nobody can stop you. Everybody's got the right to spoil their own lives in their own way, more's the pity! I remember a married couple at Poppenhall who would have the wife's brother to live with them, and he fell into the fire and was burnt to death, through having epileptic fits." "But he'd have fallen into the fire just the same if he hadn't lived with them," I argued, with a culpable lack of dignity; "and then they would always have blamed themselves for having neglected him."