‘Only a most infernal row,’ thinks Crosby again, but says: ‘Naturally nothing. Besides, Mrs. Prior is going home to-morrow.’ ‘Oh, I’m glad of that,’ says Susan. ‘I didn’t like her expression when she saw Ella. And now I must go; Lady Forster wants to say good-bye to me.’ She turns, then runs back again. ‘Oh, a moment. Tell me’—looking at him eagerly, but shyly—‘you—do you really think it has gone off—well?’ The eyes are so anxious that Crosby feels it is impossible to jest here. This little party has seemed a great deal to her—quite a tremendous event in her calm, isolated life. ‘I heard Katherine say just now,’ says he, ‘that she had never enjoyed herself so much in all her life!’ And if he hadn’t heard Katherine say that, I hope it will be forgiven him. ‘And—and the others?’ ‘“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,”’ quotes he solemnly. ‘In my opinion you will have to get up the sergeant and all his merry men to turn them out.’ ‘Oh, now!’ says Susan, with a lovely laugh, that has such sweet and open gratification in it, ‘that’s too much. And you’—anxiously—‘you weren’t dull?’ He pauses; then: ‘I don’t think so.’ He pauses again, as if to more religiously search his memory. ‘I really don’t think so!’ At this Susan laughs with even greater gaiety than before, and he laughs too, and with a little friendly hand-clasp they part. It doesn’t take the Barrys—that is, Susan, Dom, Carew, and Betty—a second after their guests have gone, to scamper down the road to the little green gate and beat upon it the tattoo that is the signal between them and Ella. And it takes only another moment for Ella herself to open the gate cautiously, whereupon she finds herself instantly with her hands full of cakes and fruit and sweets that they have brought her from their party, leaving the rest to the children, who had really behaved remarkably well all through the afternoon, thanks to the sombre Jacky, who had kept them under his unflinching eye. ‘Well, we’re alive,’ cries Betty. ‘Rather the worse for wear, but still in the land of the living. And, really, it went off miraculously well—for us. Not even a fly in the cream. You saw us, I know. How did we look?’ ‘Oh, it was all so pretty—so pretty!’ says Ella, a little sadly, perhaps, but with enthusiasm that leaves nothing to be desired. ‘Yes, of course I saw you. I climbed up the tree. But’—nervously, looking at Susan—‘I’m afraid they saw me.’ ‘Certainly they saw you,’ says Carew, a little hotly. ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ ‘Oh no! I didn’t want that. I am sorry,’ says Ella, with evident distress. ‘I thought I was quite safe there—that no one could see me. But—Susan—did Mr. Wyndham see me?’ ‘Yes,’ says Susan gently. Ella’s distress at once growing deeper, she goes on hurriedly: ‘But, as Carew says, why not? It is your own place—your own tree—and I have always said you ought to come out and mix with us.’