“Why, Miss Pris?” said the young poet. If his eyes were not lover-like, they were kind; his cheek was ruddy-brown, his lip was red. Priscilla clung to the sturdy arm she had captured. “It’s never you, my brother?” cried Lady Lochore. “What brings you among us frivolous humans at this unwonted hour? Have you come to turn us out of paradise with a flaming sword?” Ellinor, who had been anxiously gazing at David, thrust herself forward in a manner quite unlike her usual reserve. “David,” she cried, “you are ill!” She laid her hand a second upon his. “Father,” she went on, turning round appealingly, “do you not see? Cousin David is ill.” And as Master Simon took no heed, but rambled on in fresh rhapsodies, she and David remained a moment as if alone. “They had your key, David,” she said, speaking rapidly, “and forced their way in. I have never opened the gate of our garden to a human being since you and I were here together.” He turned to her, and seemed to bring, from a great distance, his mind to bear upon her words. Then his eyes softened, became almost tender as they rested upon her face. After a little pause, during which he was quite oblivious of the curious looks cast from all sides upon him, he answered in a low voice: “Thank you. I think I understand now.” Then he turned—bracing himself in mind and body—and swept the company with the gaze of the master and the host. “I forgot my key in the gate, it seems, and you all took advantage of the circumstance—Oh, pray, not a word, Colonel Harcourt! Indeed, Mr. Herrick, do not misunderstand me. I should be infringing the most elementary tenets of hospitality did I wish to deny such honoured guests when it seems they had set their hearts on so trifling a pleasure. Pray remain in the garden, pray use it as much as you wish—to-day. I have no doubt,” he went on with a sarcastic smile, “that you will all be heartily sick of it before nightfall. Meanwhile, since to-morrow sees the end of your visit to my house, I am the more glad to gratify you in this instance.” There was a slight pause. Harcourt exchanged a look with Herrick and shrugged his shoulders; then he turned his glance towards Lady Lochore. Her face was livid, but for the hectic patch on either cheek. “A _congé_, as neatly given as ever I heard!” whispered Herrick to Priscilla, while his cheek reddened. “Very courteous, very courteous indeed!” cried Villars in his cracked voice, making two or three quick bows in Sir David’s direction.