“Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your boots!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the kitchen.” “Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie—but mother was out of the room. When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were experienced and we refrained. After a while she said: “Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.” “Oh,” said mother tentatively, “Did he come along with you?” “He did not look at me.” “Oh!” exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she resumed: “Perhaps he did not see you.” “Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked. “He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond.” “It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you.” “I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant. He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him.” “You seem very cross,” said I. “Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance.” “Was he driving?” “In the dog-cart.” She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited patiently. “It was mean of him, wasn’t it mother?” “Well, my girl, you have treated him badly.” “What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants.” “And girls,” said mother, “do not know what they want.” “A grown-up quality,” I added. “Nevertheless,” said Lettie, “he is a mean fop, and I detest him.” She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she were in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to Mr. Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley’s Life of Gladstone. I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs. Tempest—from my mother, concerning a bazaar in process at the church. “I will bring Leslie back with me,” said I to myself. The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich ended at Nethermere; their yellow blur on the water made the cold, wet inferno of the night more ugly. Leslie and Marie were both in the library—half a library, half a business office; used also as a lounge room, being cosy. Leslie lay in a great armchair by the fire, immune among clouds of blue smoke. Marie was perched on the steps, a great volume on her knee. Leslie got up in his cloud, shook hands, greeted me curtly, and vanished again. Marie smiled me a quaint, vexed smile, saying: “Oh, Cyril, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m so worried, and Leslie says he’s not a pastry cook, though I’m sure I don’t want him to be one, only he need not be a bear.” “What’s the matter?” She frowned, gave the big volume a little smack and said: