this was his favourite heathen god, whom he
appealed to constantly—"there's some one in
the next garden now. Come and look, Fermor.
Did you ever see such a grim old 'buffer?' He's
as stiff as a musket."

"Yes," said Fermor, calmly, above all curiosity.
"I know him. He came bursting in on me this
morning: something about that dog you brought
here."

"And I suppose you shut him up. A very
awkward customer though, eh?"

"Why yes," said Fermor, placidly. "I think
he did not take much by his visit. I have a way
of my own for that class of people."

"Ah!" said Young Brett, with admiration;
"that's it; just what I envy so in you. Jove!"
he said, again; "look here. They're coming
with a sort of procession, I declare. And a girl,
and a maid, and a chair." Then, after a pause, a
long deep drawn "By—Jove!"

Fermor looked out, succumbing to curiosity.
There was a sort of little progress—a girl leaning
on the grim figure, maid, pillows, chair, just
as Young Brett had described. The sun was
very strong and sultry, and not a breath of air
abroad. The chair was set full in the sun, and
the young lady assisted down into it, but sat with
her back to the houses. The maid then opened
her parasol for her. The grim figure stood over
her, talking as grimly; at times walked away on
a sort of beat with stiff iron motions, and came
back.

"Why don't she turn round and let us see her
face!" said Young Brett, impatiently. "I wonder
who she is? Am sure she's pretty."

"She is the girl," said Fermor, with an air of
knowledge. "I know it all. It was about her
he came in."

"I thought it was about a dog," said Brett.

"Well, it might be. One don't necessarily
exclude the other. Hush! I declare. Did you
see her?"

She had looked round slowly while her father
was away on his beat. They both saw her. A
round, full, soft English face, full of goodness,
and of the beauty of gentleness and good humour.
But there were traces of sickness and delicacy.

"Jove!" said Young Brett, who was of the
age at which every girl seems to be lent temporarily
from paradise. "She is one! You are
always in luck, Fermor. You always tumble on
your feet in these sort of things. Lucky dog!"
he added, with jocularity. "Don't tell me; you
knew of this all the time, and picked out the
house."

This sort of freedom, and on this class of subject,
always made Fermor shiver. He said, coldly,
"You took the lodgings yourself—you or that
Major Carter—I forget which. I neither care
nor know who are my neighbours."

"Nonsense! What nice work will be going
on. Enviable fellow! Telegraphing, eh?"

Fermor coloured. Rallying confused him. "I
don't understand you," he said, in a voice registered
a good deal below zero. "I never do
understand that sort of thing. Pray don't talk in
that way. I don't like it."

The other coloured in his turn. "I didn't
mean—" he said. "I beg your pardon."

"No, no," said Fermor, soothed by this
humility; "there are fellows with whom that
sort of thing goes down. I don't care for it. It
may be a defect; but I don't."

"I saw the Manuels this morning," said
Young Brett, abruptly. "Ah! the second is a
nice one. I am very glad, though, our friend is
getting her; very glad."

"But is he, though?" said Fermor, contemptuously,
and yet a little nervously. "Is he quite
sure?"

"Well, I met him this morning, with a mouth
open from ear to ear, and he squeezed my hand
as if it were in a vice, and when I asked him when
he was going away, he looked knowing, and
said it depended. But I must be off myself;
promised to go with Page and look at a horse."

"What a hurry you are always in!" said
Fermor. "Surely you're not quite a Secretary
of State, or Governor-General of India, or a
Member of Parliament—or is this horse affair
matter of life and death, that you can't afford to
be a moment late? Will the horse die, if you are
not precisely punctual?"

"O no," said poor Brett, sitting down ruefully
under this shower of sarcasm. "Not at all;
just as long as you please."

"Well, is there no news? Surely there must
be something going on?"

"No; nothing that I know. Every day is
much the same, you know."

"You should read Mrs. Barbauld's little story
of 'Eyes and No Eyes.' If you don't use such
faculties as you have, you will become quite
dull. Did the Manuels tell you nothing? By the
way, which of them did you see?"

"The second one. She was in the garden, and
I spoke to her over the rails, and when I told
her I was going to see you, by Jove—But you
will be angry if I tell you."

"Not at all," said Fermor, good naturedly.
"Tell it your own way. Go on. Well?"

"Well, I assure you she had a bunch of scarlet
geraniums in her hand, and I could not tell
which was the reddest."

"Which? of the geraniums?"

"No; the geraniums or her cheeks. I am
afraid, old fellow, you have been doing mischief
there; I am indeed."

Fermor passed over the "old fellow" with
wonderful good nature. He shook his head with
great good humour, and said it was nonsense.

"And yet," said Young Brett, thoughtfully,
"what deep ones they are!"

"Who?" said Fermor.

"O! women—girls!" said the beardless
Rochefoucald.  "That night, when I caught her—
Well, any fellow, would have thought it was a
desperate case, and yet, you see—"

Fermor suddenly became cold. "I don't follow
you," he said.