The game had to be interrupted while the returned traveller was welcomed. "You look as fit as a fiddle, old boy," said Dick. "You'll be able to stay at home and enjoy yourself now, I hope. Will you play when we've finished this? I can lend you a pair of shoes." "No thanks," said Jim. "I'll talk to Cicely." So the others went back on to the lawn. "Come and have a stroll round," Jim suggested; and Cicely, with a half-regretful glance at the tennis lawn, rose to go with him. They went to the rhododendron dell round the lake. It was where every one went naturally if they wanted to walk and talk at the same time. Jim's honest, weathered face was very frequently turned towards Cicely's fair, young one, and there was a light in his eyes which made her turn hers away a little confusedly when they met it. But Jim's voice was level enough, and his speech ordinary. "I'm jolly glad to get back again," he said. "I've never liked Mountfield half so well. I was up at six o'clock this morning, and out and about." "So was I," said Cicely, and she told him, laughing, of the events of the morning. "I expect they've grown, those young beggars," said Jim, alluding thus disrespectfully to the twins. "I've often thought of them while I've been away, and of everybody at Kencote--you especially." "We've all thought of you, too," said Cicely, "and talked about you. You haven't been forgotten, Jim." "I hoped I shouldn't be," he said simply. "By Jove, how I've looked forward to this--coming over here the first moment I could. I wish you hadn't got all these people here, though." "All these people!" echoed Cicely. "Why, Jim, you know them as well as we do." "Yes, I'm a selfish beggar. I wanted to have you all to myself."