"Give me a cigarette, Sandy. It's an awfully tiring walk here. Is Aunt Eliza in? I hope she is, because I want some tea." "She is. But I'd give you tea if she wasn't." "And set the whole of St. Wennys gossiping! It wouldn't be proper, boy." "Oh, yes, it would. I count as a kind of cousin, you know." "All the same, Mrs. Petherick at the lodge would confide the information that we'd had tea alone together to Miss Penwarne at the Post Office, and in half an hour the entire village would be all agog to know when the subsequent elopement was likely to occur." Sandy grinned. He had proposed to Nan several times already, only to be good-naturedly turned down. "I'd supply a date with pleasure." Nan shook her head at him. "A man may not marry his grandmother." He struck a match and held it while she lit her cigarette. Then, blowing out the flame, he enquired: "Does that apply when she's only three years his senior?" "Oh, Sandy, I'm aeons older than you. A woman always is. Besides"--her words hurrying a little--"I'm engaged already." "Engaged?" He dropped the dead match he was still holding and stared out of the window a moment. Then, squaring his shoulders, he said quietly: "Who's the lucky beggar?" "Roger Trenby." Sandy's lips pursed themselves to whistle, but he checked himself in time and no sound escaped. Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravity that sat strangely on him. "Old girl, I hope you'll be very happy--the happiest woman in the world." But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which had nothing whatever to do with his own disappointment. He had known all along that he had really no chance with her. "But we're pals, Nan--pals, just the same?" he went on. She slipped her hand into his. "Pals--always, Sandy," she replied. "Thank you," he said simply. "And remember, Nan"--the boyish voice took on a note of earnestness--"if you're ever in need of a pal---I'm here, mind." Nan was conscious of a sudden sharp pain--like the stab of a nerve. The memory of just such another pledge swept over her: "I think I should always know if you were in trouble--and I should come." Only it had been uttered by a different voice--the quiet, drawling voice of Peter Mallory. "Thank you, Sandy dear. I won't forget." There was a faint weariness in her tones, despite the smile which accompanied them. Sandy's nice green eyes surveyed her critically, noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the little tired droop of her lips as the smile faded. "I tell you what it is," he said, "you're fagged out, tramping over here in all this heat. I'll ring and tell them to hurry up tea."