“I know it was only thoughtlessness, old boy,” said his father; “but try to think. There then. How’s the game going?--is Helen playing with the frightful precision we are getting accustomed to? Look there, she’s hit your ball from right across the lawn. Don’t be too merciless, Helen, with your poor brother.” Helen smiled and made some laughing reply to her father. Then her eye caught sight of the book lying on the bank, her smile faded, and as she went after the ball she had hit she wondered what could be done. She guessed, though she had not heard the words, that Martin had already been rebuked for what he had said. She knew there had been one dreadful hour already that morning, and another was certain if her father saw the book. Mean time he was strolling down the lawn right in its direction, where it was lying radiant and blatant in its crimson cover on the vivid green of the grass. Martin also had seen what would happen, and as she passed him whispered to her: “He’ll see it. O Lord!” with a drearily comic expression. Mr. Challoner strolled on, came to where the book lay, and picked it up with the amiable intention of putting it on the chair to save its cover from the damp. As he did this, he read the title on the back. Then there was a dreadful pause. “Is this yours, Martin?” he asked. “Yes, father.” Mr. Challoner said nothing more, but went on his way, taking the book with him. At the corner of the box-hedge, however, he turned. “If you are up when I come back, Martin,” he said, “will you come into my study? But don’t wait up for me if I am late.” He turned his back again to walk on, and Martin thought he had gone. But next moment he paused again, and raised his voice slightly. “You should answer when I speak to you,” he said. “I thought you had gone, sir,” said Martin, with a little tremor of irritation in his tone. This time he passed out of sight, and Martin threw down his croquet-mallet. “Rather bad luck,” he said. “I’m not popular to-day. Helen, what a fool you were to leave it on the grass.” “Oh, I am so sorry Martin,” she said. “What can I do? Would it do any good if I said I had been reading it?” “No, not the slightest,” said he. “There would be enough to go round.” “I will if you like,” said she. “You see, the worst of it is that only three days ago, the day before you came home, he said that he would not have a book of hers in the house. But you couldn’t be expected to know that.” “No, but I did,” said Martin, “because you told me.” Helen threw down her mallet too. “Oh, it’s dreary,” she said.