“Hasn’t that sort of thing rather gone out since the war?” “Not in the family into which you’ve married, my dear young lady. With the Veyzes nothing ever comes in and nothing ever goes out. Don’t you think that would be a good line to spring on them?” he added with animation. “You mustn’t be too horrid,” enjoined Darcy. “I don’t want them to think I’m marrying a—a—” “A lemon,” supplied the other. “Speaking of lemons, don’t you think it would be a pious idea for you to invite your fiancé to lunch with you?” “Excellent. And you can practice your accent on Mrs. Bond.” Profound and awesome was the impression made upon that lady. She found it only natural that the couple should wander off immediately after the meal; though she would have been surprised enough at the actual basis of their desire for seclusion, which was that they might work out their plan for the encounter with the honeymooning quartette. The boathouse, which commands the approach to the Farm, was selected for the scene of the presentation. About mid-afternoon the Lees and the Woods appeared, motoring up the lower road, and were halted by Darcy, who, pink and excited, indicated a figure on the boathouse porch. The figure was tipped back in a chair, with its feet on the railing, smoking a pipe. “Come and meet my Monty,” invited Darcy. Upon their approach, the figure removed its feet from the railing with obvious reluctance. It did not remove its pipe from its face at all. To the women it bowed glumly. To the men it offered a flabby half-portion of hand. Holcomb Lee took it and dropped it. Paul Wood looked at the fingers presented to him in turn, looked at Darcy, looked at the sky and observed dispassionately that it looked like rain. “Vay likely. Beastly weathah!” grunted the other. “Bad weather makes good fishing, they say up here,” said Helen Wood, pleasantly. “Have you tried it?” “Nothin’ but sunfishes and little basses, they tell me. Beastly water!” “You might find the hunting better,” proffered Maud Lee. “Huntin’? Where’s one to find a decent mount?” “Mrs. Lee means the shooting, dear,” explained Darcy, sweetly. “Haw! Nevah heard shootin’ called huntin’ before. No decent shootin’, either. Tramped about all mornin’ and flushed one chippin’ squirrel.” “He means chipmunk,” expounded the helpful Darcy. “Poor Monty finds our American speech so difficult.” “Beastly language,” murmured the bogus baronet, resuming his seat. “But surely,” said the kindly-spirited Helen, “you find the mountains beautiful.” “Haw! Too crowded. No chance to turn about without knockin’ people’s elbows.” The visitors took a hasty departure. “Stupid ass!” growled Lee before they were fairly out of earshot. “Oh, for just one good swing at his fat head,” yearned the husky Wood. “Did you _ever_ see such a boor!” was Helen’s contribution to the symposium. “He’s _old_.” disclosed the observing Maud. “That’s a wig he had on. I’d swear to it. Poor Darcy!”