"Other people," repeated the young American quickly. "Am I to take it that there is some one else that you prefer, Cousin Nellie?" His cousin Nellie's very vivid blush seemed to be enough answer for him. He rose, saying slowly: "Why, that's a pity. That makes me feel real out of it. Still----" He shrugged the broad shoulders under the light-grey padded coat. "As you say, it can't be helped. I congratulate whoever it is that----" "Ow, stop! Gracious alive, there isn't any one to be congratulated yet," broke in Miss Million. "Me and--the gentleman haven't gone and definitely made up our minds about anything, up to now; but--well. As you say, it's better to have anything 'out.'" "If you haven't definitely made up your mind," said the young American, just as he took his leave, "I shan't definitely take 'No' for my own answer." And he's gone off now to put up at an hotel in Lewes, so that he can come over to call at the "Refuge" each day of the week that Miss Million says we are going to stay here. He thinks, I know, that after all he will "get round her" to like him. As if, poor fellow! he had any chance at all against a man like the Honourable Jim! Well! He'll soon see, that's all! CHAPTER XXVIII THE CROWDED HOLIDAY WE have now been staying for two crowded days at the "Refuge." It has certainly been the most extraordinary holiday of my life. A quite indescribable one, too! For when I try to put down in words my impression of what has been happening, I find in my mind nothing but the wildest jumble of things. There's a background of sun-lit, open country, wide blue sky patrolled by rolling white clouds, green downs strewn with loose flint, chalk wastes on which a patch of scarlet poppies stands out like a made-up mouth on a dead white face of a pierrot, glimpses of pale cliff beyond the downs, and of silver-grey Channel further still. These things are blurred in a merry chaos with so many new faces! There's the drowsy, good-natured, voluptuous face of "Marmora, the breathing statue-girl," as she lounged in the deck-chair in the shadow of the lilacs, crunching Mackintosh's toffee-de-luxe and reading "The Rosary." The tiny, vivacious face of the Boy-Impersonator. The shrewd face of Vi Vassity, the mistress of the "Refuge," melting into unexpected tenderness as she bends over the new baby that belongs to the ventriloquist's wife, the little bundle with the creasy pink face and the hands that are just clusters of honeysuckle buds.... So many sounds, too, are mixed up with this jumble of fresh impressions! Rustling of sea winds in the immemorial elm trees. Buzzing of bees in the tall limes all hung with light-green fragrant tassels! Twittering of birds! Comfortable, crooning noises of plump poultry in the back yard of the "Refuge."