They took their coffee out on the lawn under the shade of a huge cedar-tree. The river ran at their feet and a Canadian canoe and a rowing-boat were tethered close by in a little dock. The house, a place of grey stone with grey weathered and lichen-coloured slates, raised its great oblong chimneys into a pellucid air. The sunlight flashed upon its rows of tall windows--they were all flat to the house, except the one great bay on the ground floor in the library--and birds called from all the trees. The time slipped away. Dick Hazlewood found himself talking of his work, a practice into which he seldom fell, and was surprised that she could talk of it with him. He realised with a start how it was that she knew. But she talked naturally and openly, as though he must know her history. Once even some jargon of the Staff College slipped from her. "You were doing let us pretend at Box Hill last week, weren't you?" she said, and when he started at the phrase she imagined that he started at the extent of her information. "It was in the papers," she said. "I read every word of them," and then for a second her face clouded, and she added: "I have time, you see." She looked at her watch and sprang to her feet. "I must go," she said. "I didn't know it was so late. I have enjoyed myself very much." She did not hesitate now to offer her hand. "Goodbye." Dick Hazlewood went with her as far as the gate and came back to his father. "You were asking me," he said carelessly, "if I could give you some part of the summer. I don't see why I shouldn't come here in a day or two. The polo matches aren't so important." The old man's eyes brightened. "I shall be delighted, Richard, if you will." He looked at his son with something really ecstatic in his expression. At last then his better nature was awakening. "I really believe--" he exclaimed and Dick cut him short. "Yes, it may be that, sir. On the other hand it may not. What is quite clear is that I must catch my train. So if I might order the car?" "Of course, of course." He came out with his son into the porch of the house. "We have done a fine thing to-day, Richard," he said with enthusiasm and a nod towards the cottage beyond the meadow. "We have indeed, sir," returned Dick cheerily. "Did you ever see such a pair of ankles?" "She lost the tragic look this afternoon, Richard. We must be her champions." "We will put in the summer that way, father," said Dick, and waving his hand was driven off to the station. Mr. Hazlewood walked back to the library. But "walked" is a poor word. He seemed to float on air. A great opportunity had come to him. He had enlisted the services of his son. He saw Dick and himself as Toreadors waving red flags in the face of a bull labelled Conventionality. He went back to the pamphlet on which he was engaged with renewed ardour and laboured diligently far into the night. CHAPTER XV THE GREAT CRUSADE