But Betty had too much to do, and finally Carew had gone off with Dom on a foraging quest, and now, as the girls come out of the drawing-room, they meet the two boys ‘laden with golden grain,’ like the _Argosy_, and eager to display their purchases. Such grapes! Such dear sweet little cakes! They are all enchanted; and soon the table, delicately laid out in a corner of the queer, pretty old garden, is a sight to behold! And beyond lies the tennis-court—one only, but so beautifully mown and rolled, looking like the priest of famous history, all ‘shaven and shorn.’ * * * * * ‘Didn’t I tell you it was a perfect old garden?’ Lady Forster is saying, addressing Lady Muriel, who is laughing, quite immensely for her, at one of Carew’s boyish jokes. Lady Forster is dressed in one of her smartest gowns—a mere trifle, perhaps, but done to please, and therefore a charming deed. And all her guests, incited by her, no doubt, have donned their prettiest frocks, so that Miss Barry’s garden at this moment presents a picture more suggestive of a garden-party at Twickenham than a quiet tea in the grounds of an old Irish rectory. ‘It is too pretty for anything,’ says Lady Muriel. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for a good deal. I think it was very kind of your aunt, Mr.——’ ‘Carew!’ says he quickly. ‘May I? What a charming name! It was very kind of your aunt, Carew’—smiling—‘to ask us here.’ ‘It is very kind of you to come,’ says Carew. ‘Do you run over to town?’ asks Lady Muriel. It has occurred to her that she would like to repay this pretty kindness of Miss Barry’s. ‘Oh no’—shaking his handsome head. And then frankly, ‘We are too poor for that.’ ‘Ah! your sister ought to come,’ says she, after which she grows thoughtful. Crosby glances quickly at her. He has heard that last remark of hers, and somehow resents it. Susan—in London! He had taken his cup of tea from Miss Barry a little while ago, and carried it to where Susan is sitting, throwing himself on the grass at her feet, his cup beside him. Lady Muriel’s words grate on him. He looks up now at the pure profile beside him, and wonders what would be the result of starting Susan as a debutante in town under good auspices. What? ‘You are thinking,’ says Susan softly, breaking into his reverie gently. ‘Yes, I was thinking.’ He looks up at her. ‘If I said of you, would you believe me?’ ‘Not a bit’—gaily. ‘Anyone would say that.’ ‘Would they?’ His regard grows even more pronounced. How many have said that to her? How, indeed, could anyone refrain from saying it? And—he draws his breath a little quickly here, as conviction forces itself on him—and everyone with truth! ‘Susan, this is disgraceful!’ says he carelessly. ‘You must have had a long list of flirtations to speak like that.’