“You’re right. Now it is. I’ll do that, while you might be attending to a certain matter concerning boots, about which we were going to be so cunning. Do you know, dear,” said Guy, turning to his wife, “Mr. Foster has a small piece nicked out of the sole of his left boot. We noticed it in his footmarks in the garden this morning. Isn’t that interesting? Doyle here thinks it’s a new fashion, so he’s going to nick a bit out of one of George’s (which happen to be the same size and shape) so that George can be in the swim too. Isn’t that kind of him?” “What’s all this about?” asked George uneasily. George was a man who set a certain value on his boots. “But oh,” sighed Mr. Doyle, “how I wish that Reginald, besides having a broken boot, had a broken nose as well. How very blissful life would then be.” Cynthia giggled suddenly. She did not approve of all this nonsense; indeed, she most strongly disapproved. But then, on the other hand she did not love Mr. Foster. She knew she ought to love Mr. Foster, because Mr. Foster was her neighbour (distant, if not distant enough) and Cynthia had been brought up in the orthodox way. But certainly she did not love Mr. Foster. This was all the more unkind seeing that she had never even met him. “But he has!” giggled Cynthia. “It was broken in a boxing-match at school. He told Mary James all about it once, and Mary told me. He told her all about it,” added Cynthia feelingly, “for nearly an hour on end.” As if moved on a single string, Guy and Mr. Doyle rose and clung to each other in silence. “This is one of the times that are too sacred for speech,” observed Mr. Doyle a moment later with considerable emotion. “I must return to my concealed fiancée and George’s boots. Good-bye, Cynthia. George, you may follow me if you like, but don’t attempt to emulate me. I shall be walking on air, and that’s so dangerous for the uninitiated.” He moved with rapture out of the room. After an uncertain moment, George followed him. Guy smiled at his wife. “It’s twelve o’clock, darling, that’s all. Just time for a nice little spin before lunch. Care for one?” Cynthia tried to look cross with him and failed. “Guy, you are so ridiculous. I don’t know whether to be furious with you or glad.” “Be glad, darling. It’s so much less wearing. By the way, are you now going to run upstairs and put on your hat?” “Certainly not, Mr. Nesbitt,” said Cynthia with dignity and ran upstairs to do so. Chapter XII. Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle