And then, for the first time in her life, she saw Roy Birnie, home after four months of toil and tribulation at an army crammer’s. He had been plucked out of Eton at Christmas to that end, Eton having decided that it was a case for desperate measures. Three months of intensive brain-culture had not affected his appearance, which was healthy, nor his snub nose, nor his cheerful grin, nor the slight curl in his hair, of which his mother had once been so proud and of which he was still so ashamed. He sat on the left of Major Laing, his chin resting on the pew ledge, his grey eyes devoutly closed, and his ebullient spirits throttled down until it should please Doctor Chirnside to conclude the first prayer. He was exactly like hundreds of other clean-run Public School boys of eighteen. Marjorie had observed a dozen such in that very pew during the past three months. But, as already noted, she had never seen Roy. That usually dependable organ, her heart, missed a couple of beats, and she lowered her head quickly. Presently, impelled by a power greater than herself (or, indeed, than any of us), she lifted her head and looked up—only to find that Roy was gazing straight down upon her. For the moment her eyes were interlocked with his. Then suddenly she became aware of the expression upon his face. The result has already been described. That evening, after prayers, her father motioned to her to stay behind. When they were alone, he said: "I hope you have given up that idea of yours about going away." "Well," replied his daughter pleasantly, "I have postponed it, anyhow, father." "You have decided wisely for yourself," said Mr. Clegg. Marjorie felt inclined to agree. But it is just possible that the matter had been decided for her. *CHAPTER III* *DER TAG* *I* I suppose I may be forgiven for having felt a trifle preoccupied upon the first of August, nineteen-fourteen. Most people did. But the European situation, desperate though it was, was not sufficiently desperate to excuse me for forgetting that the first Saturday in August is the inexorable date of Lady Christina’s annual garden party at Buckholm. So I blundered right into it.