They went on readily enough; and the rest soon followed them through the wilder spaces of the garden, down rocky steps to the bay, where sand and rough grass shelved gently to the water’s edge. Here they found two boats already afloat, with Maurice and Monica—she was commonly called Mona—established in one of them. Lady Forsyth, nothing if not prompt, privately consigned Ralph to that boat, Mark and Keith to her own. It was a heavenly evening, and she thanked goodness they were going to have it to themselves: quite a rare event since Maurice Lenox had discovered that superfluous Miss Alison. ‘Coming to row stroke for us?’ she asked as Mark handed her in. He shook his head, smiling down at her. ‘That’s to be Keith’s privilege! I’m for the other boat.’ But neither his smile nor the light pressure of her arm could atone for the refusal. ‘Pointed and purposeless,’ she denounced it mentally; but within a very few moments his purpose was revealed. ‘Down stream a bit first, Keith,’ he called out, as he pushed off his own boat and sprang lightly in. ‘I want to run up to the village. Miss Alison and her friend might like to join us.’ So they rowed down stream at his command: and for Lady Forsyth the pleasure of the outing was gone; the peace and beauty of the evening spoilt by fierce resentment against these intrusive strangers who had no authorised position in the scheme of things. And her natural vexation was intensified by concern for Sheila: though whether the girl took Mark’s sudden and strange defection seriously it was impossible to tell. She wore that smiling, friendly graciousness of hers like a bright veil, that seemed to baffle attempts at intimacy, while it enhanced her charm. Even with Lady Forsyth, who loved her as a daughter, she had her reserves, notably on matters nearest her heart. ‘After all, she knows the real Mark almost as well as I do,’ Mark’s mother reflected by way of consolation. ‘And she’s wiser than I am, in many ways, though she is nearly thirty years younger. I’m probably racing on miles too fast. He’s barely known the girl a fortnight. He _couldn’t_ be so crazy⸺All the same, he’s no business to—it’s distracting!’ she concluded, her irritation flaming up again at sight of the two figures that were now approaching the shore, escorted by Mark. Miss Alison, the taller one, had unquestionably height and grace to recommend her. Mark, who stood six feet in his socks, could barely give her a couple of inches; and the languid deliberation of her movements had, on Lady Forsyth, the same maddening effect as a drawl in speech. Her own brain and body were too quick, in the original sense of the word, not to make her a trifle intolerant towards the ‘half-alive’; and, rightly or wrongly, Miss Alison was apt to produce that impression even on her admirers, though no doubt they expressed it differently.