“I'm so glad I'm a girl,” said Kate. “Well, so am I,” said Philip. “Are you?” It came at his face like a flash of lightning, and Philip stammered, “I mean--that is--you know--what about Pete?” “Oh, is that all? Well, good-night, if you must go. Shall I bring you the lantern? No need? Starlight, is it? You can see your way to the gate quite plainly? Very well, if you don't want showing. Good-night!” The last words, in an injured tone, were half lost behind the closing door. But the heart of a girl is a dark forest, and Kate had determined that, work or no work, so long a spell as six months Philip should not be away. III. One morning in the late spring there came to Douglas a startling and most appalling piece of news---Ross Christian was constantly seen at “The Manx Fairy.” On the evening of that day Philip reappeared at Sulby. He had come down in high wrath, inventing righteous speeches by the way on plighted troths and broken pledges. Ross was there in lacquered boots, light kid gloves, frock coat, and pepper and salt trousers, leaning with elbow on the counter, that he might talk to Kate, who was serving. Philip had never before seen her at that task, and his indignation was extreme. He was more than ever sure that Grannie was a simpleton and Cæsar a brazen hypocrite. Kate nodded gaily to him as he entered, and then continued her conversation with Ross. There was a look in her eyes that was new to him, and it caused him to change his purpose. He would not be indignant, he would be cynical, he would be nasty, he would wait his opportunity and put in with some cutting remark. So, at Cæsar's invitation and Grannie's welcome, he pushed through the bar-room to the kitchen, exchanged salutations, and then sat down to watch and to listen. The conversation beyond the glass partition was eager and enthusiastic. Ross was fluent and Kate was vivacious. “My friend Monty?” “Yes; who is Monty?” “He's the centre of the Fancy.” “The Fancy!” “Ornaments of the Ring, you know. Come now, surely you know the Ring, my dear. His rooms in St. James's Street are full of them every night. All sorts, you know--featherweights, and heavy-weights, and greyhounds. And the faces! My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images. Knowledge boxes all awry, mouths crooked, and noses that have had the upper-cut. But good men all; good to take their gruel, you know. Monty will have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring's packer. Never heard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know, only he fought cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a public in Holborn now with pictures of the Fancy round the walls.” Then Kate, with a laugh, said something which Philip did not catch, because Cæsar was rustling the newspaper he was reading.