She relapsed into silence again on the homeward way, and it was Mayne who broke it. “Let’s sit down here a minute, it’s so jolly!” he suggested, as they came to an easy stile. “We needn’t gallop back for Miss Burton’s sake. She’s a host in herself.” Cecily laughed shortly. “Don’t you admire her? She’s very handsome.” Mayne shrugged his shoulders, as he threw himself down on the grass close to the low step on which she was seated. Cecily smiled. She felt childishly comforted by the contemptuous action. The long meadow-grass was starred with daisies, and jewelled with tall spikes of rose-red sorrel. The field sloped to a full, slow stream, which lazily stirred tufts of forget-me-nots in its passing. On the farther bank, the cattle swished indolent tails as they crowded under the shade of the willows, or stood knee-deep in the water. “What a peaceful place!” said Mayne, suddenly. “It makes a funny sort of contrast to one or two scenes I remember. May I smoke? It’s pretty,” he went on, beginning to fill his pipe, “but somehow, as a setting, it doesn’t suit you.” Cecily started a little. There was nothing in the remark, but she knew that Mayne meant to talk, in the sense of the word, and she did not know whether she was glad or sorry. It was, perhaps, a tribute to his personality that the idea of preventing him did not even occur to her. One did not try to stop Mayne when he expressed the intention of doing anything. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” she returned, smiling. “Why doesn’t a pretty place suit me?” “No room for your wings.” “My dear Dick, you’re _not_ going to tell me I’m an angel!” she exclaimed, still clinging to the fringe of conventional repartee. “Certainly not,” he replied, lighting the pipe, “the wings are not angelic.” “That’s right. Where would they carry me--if they had room to move?” “Out into the wild places at the back of beyond--sometimes.” Cecily dropped her light tone. “That’s true,” she said, slowly. “And at others?” “No farther than town. You’d fold them, for a time at least, quite complacently in a London drawing-room, provided the other birds were of the right flock.” “That’s also true--or _was_ true.” The amendment was dreary. “Sometimes when _I_ was at the back of beyond,” continued Mayne, smoking stolidly, “I used to picture you as a celebrity, holding a _salon_--like those French women, you know. The charming ones--not the blue stockings. Madame Récamier--Madame de Sévigné--that sort of thing.” “Instead of which I ride down to the village on my bicycle, and order the groceries. It’s Robert who’s the celebrity, you know.” She stooped to pick a long-stalked buttercup as she spoke. Her voice was not bitter, it was quite colorless. “There was generally room for two in the _salons_, wasn’t there?” asked Mayne. “Possibly. There isn’t on the hearth-rug.” There was rather a long pause. Mayne took out his pipe, and knocked its bowl against the stile.