Her thoughts went back to what she had written in her diary. If that _should_ be true she must be very, very careful. He must never guess it, never. She would be very cold and distant and polite. Not hail-fellow well-met with a "brother artist," like she had been yesterday. It was all very difficult indeed. Even if it really did turn out to be true, if the wonderful thing had happened to her, if she really was in love she would not try a bit to make him like her. That would be forward and "horrid." She would never try to attract any man. Those things must come of themselves or not at all. She arranged her skirt in more effective folds, and wondered how it would look as one came up the woodland path. She thought it would look rather picturesque. It was a nice heliotrope colour. It would look like a giant Parma violet against the dark green background. She hoped her hair was tidy. And that her hat was not very crooked. However little one desires to attract, one may at least wish one's hat to be straight. She looked for the twentieth time at her watch, the serviceable silver watch that had been her mother's. Half-past six, and he had not come. Well, when he did come she would pretend she had only just got there. Or how would it be if she gave up being a Parma violet and went a little way down the path and then turned back when she heard him coming? She walked away a dozen yards and stood waiting. But he did not come. Was it possible that he was not coming? Was he ill--lying uncared for at the Peal of Bells in the village, with no one to smooth his pillow or put eau-de-cologne on his head? She walked a hundred yards or so towards the village on the spur of this thought. Or perhaps he had come by another way to the trysting place? That thought drove her back. He was not there. Well, she would not stay any longer. She would just go away, and come back ever so much later, and let him have a taste of waiting. She had had her share, she told herself, as she almost ran from the spot. She stopped suddenly. But suppose he did _not_ wait? She went slowly back. She sat down again, schooled herself to patience. What an idiot she had been! Like any school-girl. Of course he had never meant to come. Why should he? That page in her diary called out to her to come home and burn it. Care for him indeed! Not she! Why she hadn't exchanged ten words with the man! "But I knew it was all nonsense when I wrote it," she said. "I only just put it down to see what it would look like." * * * * * Mr. Eustace Vernon roused himself, and yawned. "It's got to be done, I suppose. Buck up,--you'll feel better after your bath! Jove! Seven o'clock. Will she have waited? She's a keen player if she has. It's just worth trying, I suppose." The church clock struck the half-hour as he turned into the wood. Something palely violet came towards him. "So you _are_ here," he said. "Where's the pink frock?"