None of this bothered Dan, not even the vituperation of himself when he encouraged a family of Sicilian bootmakers to rent one of his cottages and began to _pay to have his shoes shined_. Nothing bothered Dan except the fear lest Thurley should not marry him; that only bothered him at stray moments when a wilful impulse led her to break an engagement with him and run off to sing at some entertainment at South Wales. As he strode along the main street, Zaza heeling him, he whistled “Bonnie Sweet Bessie” and shouted out a hullo to every one he passed, regardless of age or rank. There was something delightfully irrepressible about Dan. Perhaps the fact that every girl in town was or had been or was planning to be in love with him might have aided his buoyancy, as well as the knowledge that the older generation still looked at him with horrified disapproval and yet were powerless to control so much as a single one of Zaza’s barks. He made his way up the winding path leading to the burial ground, one of those picturesque spots with weeping willows, wild roses and a tottering old fence, and scraggly berry bushes growing insolently without. “Oh, Thurley,” he began, calling before he reached the summit. “Ship ahoy!” sang back a strong, sweet voice. Presently he came upon a tall, blue-eyed girl with thick braids of dark hair. She was sitting under a willow tree, a book thrown carelessly at one side. “Thurley, dearest,” he began, sitting down and kissing her, “I thought four o’clock would never come.” “Did you make mistakes in change?” She put her hand on his shoulder. “If the clerks could see their lord and master now,” and she rumpled up his hair. “Bother the clerks and the whole darned town—I’ve made you promise to marry me, Thurley, and you’re not going to make me keep it a secret. Why don’t we tell every one right away? What’s the use of keeping it to ourselves, when we are both sure of ourselves and the happiest things alive?” Thurley laughed indulgently. “It’s just me, Dan. I want to be terribly sure of myself.”