“Tiny dearly loves a little escapade; she is the liveliest little thing! She has no other children to play with, and she is not afraid of anybody. She is always with her mother, you know, and hears us talk of everything.” “Very bad training for a child,” said Ralph, “to hear all your scandal and gossip over your tea.” “Oh, Ralph, how common, how old fashioned you are!” cried Lucy, indignantly. “Do you think Mrs. Nugent talks scandal over her tea? or I--? I have been trying to make her promise to come up to lunch to-morrow, and then you shall see--that is, if she comes; for she was not at all sure whether she would come. She is not fond of strangers. She never will come to us when we have people--that is, not chance people--unless she knows them beforehand. Oh, you, of course, my brother, that’s a different thing. I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Bertram, for making you wait, and for seeming to imply--and then Tiny rushing at you in that way.” “Tiny made a very sweet little episode in our walk,” said Bertram. “Please don’t apologize. I am fond of children, and the little thing gave me a look; children are strange creatures, they’re only half of this world, I think. She looked--as if somehow she and I had met before.” “Have you, Mr. Bertram? did you perhaps know--her mother?” cried Lucy, in great surprise. “It is very unlikely; I knew some Nugents once, but they were old people without any children, at least--No, I’ve been too long in the waste places of the earth ever to have rubbed shoulders with this baby; besides,” he said, with a laugh, “if there was any recognition, it was she who recognized me.” “You are talking greater nonsense than I was doing, Bertram,” said Ralph. “We’re both out of sorts, I should think. These damp English nights take all the starch out of one. Come, let’s get home. You shan’t bring us out again after sunset, Lucy, I promise you that.” “Oh, sunset is not a bad time here,” cried Lucy; “it’s a beautiful time; it is only in your warm countries that it is bad. Besides, it’s long after sunset; it’s almost night and no moon for an hour yet. That’s the chief thing I like going to town for, that it is never dark like this at night. I love the lamps--don’t you, Mr. Bertram?--there is such company in them; even the cottage windows are nice, and _that_ ‘Red Lion’--one wishes that a public-house was not such a very bad thing, for it looks so ruddy and so warm. I don’t wonder the men like it; I should myself, if--Oh, take care! there is a very wet corner there, just before you come to our gates. Why, there is some one coming out. Why--it’s Reginald, Raaf!” They were met, in the act of opening the gate, by Mr. Wradisley’s slim, unmistakable figure. He had an equally slim umbrella, beautifully rolled up, in his hand, and walked as if the damp country road were covered with velvet.