zest that provoked Nick to much mirth.

Violet watched her lazily, with occasional offers to help which were
seldom meant or taken seriously.

"I believe I shall come after you, Allegro," she said once. "It will be
very dull without you."

"You know you are never dull in the shooting season," was Olga's
sensible reply. "You never have time to think of me then."

"Quite true, dear," Violet admitted. "I wonder what sort of crowd Bruce
will collect this year, and if any of them will want to marry me. He is
always furiously angry when that happens. I can't imagine why. It
amuses me," said Violet, with a yawn.

"Perhaps he doesn't want you to get married," suggested Olga.

"Apparently not. And yet I am sure he would be thankful to be rid of me.
We never agree." The beautiful eyes gleamed mischievously. "I suppose he
will expect me to marry a husband of his selection by-and-bye. He is
very mediaeval in some things."

"I don't believe you ever mean to marry at all," said Olga.

"Oh, yes, indeed I do!" Violet uttered her soft, low laugh. "But I am
mediaeval too, Allegro. Have you never noticed? I am waiting for the
first man who is brave enough to run away with me."

It was on the day following this conversation that she prevailed upon
Olga to leave her numerous occupations for an hour or so and motor her
over to Brethaven to pay another visit to her old nurse, Mrs. Briggs.
Nick wished to go over to Redlands to sort some papers, and offered his
company as far as his own gates.

"You can walk to 'The Ship' from there," he said to Olga. "It's only
half a mile, and after that you can run about the shore and amuse
yourselves till I am ready to go back."

"Don't get up to mischief!" said Max briefly.

Violet gave him a quick look from under her lashes, but said no word.

It was a hot morning with a hint of thunder in the atmosphere. With Olga
at the wheel, they set off soon after breakfast, leaving Max pumping his
bicycle at the surgery-door with grim energy. He was going to the
cottage-hospital that morning, a fact which left the motor at liberty
till the afternoon.

Mile after mile of dusty road slid by, and Olga, with her heart in the
future, sang softly to herself for sheer lightness of heart. She had
ceased to trouble about Max, since he, quite obviously, had no intention
of obtruding himself upon her. The problem--if problem there were--was
evidently one that would keep until her return from India, and Olga wa