“I will tell you something, Mr. Beardmore,” she went on in her even tone. “Something which you haven’t realised. When a boy and girl are thrown together on a desert island, it is only natural that the boy gets the idea that the girl is the only girl in the world. All his wayward fancies are concentrated on one woman and as the days pass she grows more and more wonderful in his eyes. I’ve read a lot of these desert island stories, and I’ve seen a lot of pictures that deal with that interesting situation, and that is how it strikes me. You are on a desert island here--you spend too much time on your estate, and the only things you see are rabbits and birds and Thalia Drummond. You should go into the city and into the society of people of your own station.” She turned from him with a nod, for she had seen her employer approaching, had watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stopped to survey them, and had guessed his annoyance. “I thought you were doing the house accounts, Miss Drummond,” he said with asperity. He was a skinny man, in the early fifties, colourless, sharp-featured, prematurely bald. He had an unpleasant habit of baring his long yellow teeth when he asked a question, a grimace which in some curious way suggested his belief that the answer would be an evasion. “Morning, Beardmore,” he jerked the salutation grudgingly and turned again to his secretary. “I don’t like to see you wasting your time, Miss Drummond,” he said. “I am not wasting either your time or mine, Mr. Froyant,” she answered calmly. “I have finished the accounts--here!” She tapped the worn leather portfolio which was under her arm. “You could have done the work in my library,” he complained; “there is no need to go into the wilderness.” He stopped and rubbed his long nose and glanced from the girl to the silent young man. “Very good; that will do,” he said. “I am going to see your father, Beardmore. Perhaps you will walk with me?” Thalia was already on her way to Tower House, and Jack had no excuse for lingering. “Don’t occupy that girl’s time, Beardmore, don’t, please,” said Froyant testily. “You’ve no idea how much she has to do--and I’m sure your father wouldn’t like it.” Jack was on the point of saying something offensive, but checked himself. He loathed Harvey Froyant, and at the moment hated him for his domineering attitude toward the girl. “That class of girl,” began Mr. Froyant, turning to walk by the side of the hedge toward the gate at the end of the valley, “that class of girl----” he stood still and stared. “Who the devil has broken through the hedge?” he demanded, pointing with his stick. “I did,” said Jack savagely. “It is our hedge, anyway, and it saves half a mile--come on, Mr. Froyant.” Harvey Froyant made no comment as he stepped gingerly through the hedge. They walked slowly up the hill toward the big elm tree where Jack had stood looking down into the valley.