“Grown on the premises,” he lied gayly. “Picked with the dew still on ’em.” The girl gathered the blooms into her arms and drew them up to her face with a sudden, tender, mothering gesture which caused the giver’s heart an unaccustomed and disturbing thrill. He was well repaid for the trip to Center Harbor. “How lovely!” she cried. “And how good of you! What kind are they? For reward you may take off your disguise, but you must hide if the others come.” “I will,” he agreed, and answered her question: “They’re bride and bridesmaid roses. Appropriate to the occasion.” Darcy had the grace to blush. “Out of date,” she said hastily. “What! Already?” “I’ve changed my mind,” was her calm announcement. “I’ve decided that you’re not my husband.” [Illustration: “I’ve decided that you’re not my husband”] “Wedded and Parted—by Bertha M. Clay. Who’s the Bertha M. that’s done this thing to me: “I am. As soon as you left I saw that it wouldn’t fit in at all for us to be married. The servants here probably visit between house and house. And it was bound to come out that I was at the Farmhouse and you at the Bungalow, and—well—don’t you see that would look funny if we were married?” What Jack Remsen saw was that the girl was like the pinkest of the bridesmaid roses when she blushed, though a sweeter, warmer pink. “Didn’t I go to Montreal, then?” “No. Though you may have to, later. There’s some legal formality to be gone through yet before we can be married.” “Oh, then we’re still engaged.” “Indeed, yes! Don’t think you’re going to get out of it so easily. The legal papers are in Montreal. So, instead of being married on the 16th, as we had planned, we’ve had to wait, and you’ve brought me up here, on your way to Montreal.” “Is this the genial fiction that you’ve handed out to your friends, the newly-weds?” “It is.” “How did they take it?” “Hard. Maud—that’s Mrs. Lee—especially feels that she has a terrible weight of responsibility on her shoulders. She was going to wire Gloria Greene until I told her that Mrs. Bond, the housekeeper, is Mr. Harmon’s own second cousin and therefore, a fully equipped chaperon.” “Is she?” said Remsen in surprise. “How do I know?” returned the girl innocently. “She might be. I hadn’t asked her. But I had to invent something to pacify Maud.” “Invention,” observed the admiring Mr. Remsen, “appears to be mere child’s play for you.” “Even so, it didn’t satisfy Maud. She quite insisted on my moving over to the Cottage, to be under her eye.” “You’re not going to do that?” he cried apprehensively. “And play the goosiest kind of gooseberry? Indeed, I’m not!” “What comes next? Am I to meet the turtledoves?” “If you don’t, it will look suspicious.” “So it will. Let’s get it over with, then. I’ll risk a small bet that after meeting Sir Montrose Veyze once, they won’t care to repeat the experience.” “What are you going to do to them?” “Treat them to an exhibition of British hauteur and superiority.”