isobey: and they proceeded to come out of it, with rather more haste
than dignity.

Roy, swinging from a high branch for his final jump--a bit of pure
bravado because he felt nervous inside--discovered, with mingled terror
and joy, that his vagrant foot had narrowly shaved Aunt Jane's neat hard
summer hat: Aunt Jane--of all people--at such a moment, when you
couldn't properly explain. He half wished he _had_ kicked the fierce
little feather and broken its back----

He was on the ground now, shaking hands with her, his sensitive
clean-cut face a mask of mere politeness: and Tara was standing by
him--a jagged hole in her blue frock, a scratch across her cheek, and
her hair ribbon gone--looking suspiciously as if he had been trying to
murder her instead of doing her a knightly service.

She couldn't help it, of course. But still--it was a distinct score for
Aunt Jane, who, as usual, went straight to the point.

"You nearly kicked my head just now. A little gentleman would
apologise."

He did apologise--not with the best grace.

"My turn next," his father struck in. "What the dickens were you up
to--tearing slices out of my finest tree!" His twinkly eyes were almost
grave and his voice was almost stern. ("Just because of Aunt Jane!"
thought Roy.)

Aloud he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Daddy. It was only ... Tara got in a
muddle. I had to help her."

The twinkle came back to his father's eyes.

"The woman tempted me!" was all he said; and Roy, hopelessly mystified,
wondered how he could possibly know. It was very clever of him. But Aunt
Jane seemed shocked.

"Nevil, be quiet!" she commanded in a crisp undertone; and Roy, simply
hating her, pulled out his watch.

"We've got to hurry, Daddy. Mother said 'not later than half-past.' And
it is later."

"Scoot, then. She'll be anxious because of the storm."

But though Roy, grasping Tara's hand, faithfully hurried ahead because
of mother, he managed to keep just within earshot; and he listened
shamelessly, because of Aunt Jane. You couldn't trust her. She didn't
play fair. She would bite you behind your back. That's the kind of woman
she was.

And this is what he heard.

"Nevil, it's perfectly disgraceful. Letting them run wild like that;
damaging the trees and scaring the birds."

She meant the pheasants of course. No other winged beings were sacred in
her eyes.

"Sorry, old girl. But they appear to survive it." (The cool good-humour
of his father's tone was