"There you are!" exclaimed the man, triumphantly. "You see you are in no position to point the finger of scorn at me. You were led away by fictitious rubbish on the bee as a household pet. You expected honey: you obtained stings. I was likewise led away, by a scoundrel who wrote on the delights of walking. He especially roused my expectation by the number of times he threw himself down on the soft, sweet-smelling turf while the gentle wind played round his temples and the lazy beat of the breakers came from the distant Atlantic. I tried that exercise the very first day. Net result. I landed on a thistle and winded myself." She gurgled gently. "At any rate, I’ll bet he told you that you ought to come with a map." "Wrong again. He especially stipulated that you should have no set route. Just walk and walk; and then, I suppose, when a kindly death intervenes, your relatives can’t find you, and your funeral expenses fall on the parish in which you expire." He straightened up as the door of the house opened and a charming, grey-haired woman came slowly down the path. She glanced at him quickly—a courteous but shrewd look; then she looked at the girl. "Sheila, dear, who——?" "A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, who has lost his way." "You’re not far from Umberleigh," said the elder woman. "Where are you making for?" "Nowhere in particular, as I’ve been explaining to your daughter, madam," smiled the man. "Finally, however, I shall take the train and arrive in London and slaughter the man who wrote the article which appeared in the paper." "Sounds like the house that Jack built," laughed the girl. "Anyway, you’d better stop to lunch." The man glanced at her mother, who seconded the invitation with a gracious smile. "My name is Hewson," he remarked. "Charles Hewson." He glanced at them as he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief: evidently the name meant nothing to them. "And I don’t always look like a zebra." He followed them slowly up the shady path, and the girl laughed again. "Doesn’t matter what you look like," she cried, "as long as you know something about postage-stamps." "Do you collect?" he asked. "No—but daddy does. He’s partially insane on the subject." "Sheila!" reproved her mother. "Well, he is, darling, you know. You always say so yourself." For a moment the elder woman’s eyes met the man’s over the girl’s head. And in that momentary glance the whole story of the house and its inmates seemed to stand revealed. The perfect love and happiness that breathed through the place; the certainty that it was the girl who was really the head of the little kingdom, with a sweet mother and an unpractical father as her adoring subjects; the glorious unworldliness of his surroundings struck the man like a blow. The contrast was so wonderful—the contrast to his own life. If only—— Unconsciously his glance rested on the slim figure in the muslin frock. If only—— Why not?