To the aching Tommy the manner in which, a few minutes later, he found himself standing alone with Jane Lithcom in a path of clipped laurels was almost bewilderingly simple. At the end of the laurel walk was a pretty peep of the country, and Miss Vanderpoel had brought him to see it. Nigel Anstruthers had been loitering behind with Jane and Mary. As Miss Vanderpoel turned with him into the path, she stooped and picked a blossom from a clump of speedwell growing at the foot of a bit of wall. “Lady Jane's eyes are just the colour of this flower,” she said. “Yes, they are,” he answered, glancing down at the lovely little blue thing as she held it in her hand. And then, with a thump of the heart, “Most people do not think she is pretty, but I--” quite desperately--“I DO.” His mood had become rash. “So do I,” Betty Vanderpoel answered. Then the others joined them, and Miss Vanderpoel paused to talk a little--and when they went on she was with Mary and Nigel Anstruthers, and he was with Jane, walking slowly, and somehow the others melted away, turning in a perfectly natural manner into a side path. Their own slow pace became slower. In fact, in a few moments, they were standing quite still between the green walls. Jane turned a little aside, and picked off some small leaves, nervously. He saw the muslin on her chest lift quiveringly. “Oh, little Jane!” he said in a big, shaky whisper. The following eyes incontinently brimmed over. Some shining drops fell on the softness of the blue muslin. “Oh, Tommy,” giving up, “it's no use--talking at all.” “You mustn't think--you mustn't think--ANYTHING,” he falteringly commanded, drawing nearer, because it was impossible not to do it. What he really meant, though he did not know how decorously to say it, was that she must not think that he could be moved by any tall beauty, towards the splendour of whose possessions his revered grandmother might be driving him. “I am not thinking anything,” cried Jane in answer. “But she is everything, and I am nothing. Just look at her--and then look at me, Tommy.” “I'll look at you as long as you'll let me,” gulped Tommy, and he was boy enough and man enough to put a hand on each of her shoulders, and drown his longing in her brimming eyes. . . . . . Mary and Miss Vanderpoel were talking with a curious intimacy, in another part of the garden, where they were together alone, Sir Nigel having been reattached to Lady Alanby. “You have known Sir Thomas a long time?” Betty had just said. “Since we were children. Jane reminded me at the Dunholms' ball that she had played cricket with him when she was eight.” “They have always liked each other?” Miss Vanderpoel suggested.