rty of friends had been bidden for tennis. For
the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs
Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was
hopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination that
her son should be prevented from holding another _tete-a-tete_ with
Claire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired and
intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major
Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited,
aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy
of gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meekly
acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments,
the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds
from that in which the young people were ensconced.

Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day,
and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained
happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They had
left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grass
at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven
of shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargain
frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January
morn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man's _neglige_
invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the
blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very
_viva voce_ examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts,
hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.

"You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?"

"No, I don't think I was. My mother was a child with me. We were
blissfully happy manufacturing a doll's house out of a packing chest,
and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made
out of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because they
distracted her attention."

"That would be when you were--how old? Six or seven? And you are now--
what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at
that time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of difference
at that age. It doesn't count so much later on. At least I should
think not. Do I appear to you very old?"

"Hoary!"

"No, but I say... Honestly!"

"Don't be conceited