“It is not nice!” she said, frowning with irritation. “We are not ‘nice’—are we? I thought we were proud of our unconventionality. Why shouldn’t I kiss you?” “Because it is a question of me, not of you alone.” “Dear me, you _are_ in a way!” “Mother is coming.” “Is she? You had better tell her.” Mother was very fond of Leslie. “Well, sir,” she said, “why are you frowning?” He broke into a laugh. “Lettie is scolding me for kissing her when she was playing ‘Sleeping Beauty.’” “The conceit of the boy, to play Prince!” said my mother. “Oh, but it appears I was sadly out of character,” he said ruefully. Lettie laughed and forgave him. “Well,” he said, looking at her and smiling, “I came to ask you to go out.” “It is a lovely afternoon,” said mother. She glanced at him, and said: “I feel dreadfully lazy.” “Never mind!” he replied, “you’ll wake up. Go and put your hat on.” He sounded impatient. She looked at him. He seemed to be smiling peculiarly. She lowered her eyes and went out of the room. “She’ll come all right,” he said to himself, and to me. “She likes to play you on a string.” She must have heard him. When she came in again, drawing on her gloves, she said quietly: “You come as well, Pat.” He swung round and stared at her in angry amazement. “I had rather stay and finish this sketch,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. “No, but do come, there’s a dear.” She took the brush from my hand, and drew me from my chair. The blood flushed into his cheeks. He went quietly into the hall and brought my cap. “All right!” he said angrily. “Women like to fancy themselves Napoleons.” “They do, dear Iron Duke, they do,” she mocked. “Yet, there’s a Waterloo in all their histories,” he said, since she had supplied him with the idea. “Say Peterloo, my general, say Peterloo.” “Ay, Peterloo,” he replied, with a splendid curl of the lip—“Easy conquests!” “‘He came, he saw, he conquered,’” Lettie recited. “Are you coming?” he said, getting more angry. “When you bid me,” she replied, taking my arm. We went through the wood, and through the dishevelled border-land to the high road, through the border-land that should have been park-like, but which was shaggy with loose grass and yellow mole-hills, ragged with gorse and bramble and briar, with wandering old thorn-trees, and a queer clump of Scotch firs. On the highway the leaves were falling, and they chattered under our steps. The water was mild and blue, and the corn stood drowsily in “stook.” We climbed the hill behind Highclose, and walked on along the upland, looking across towards the hills of arid Derbyshire, and seeing them not, because it was autumn. We came in sight of the head-stocks of the pit at Selsby, and of the ugly village standing blank and naked on the brow of the hill.