ok her upraised face between his hands. "I have always understood
you," he said.

"I can't help being sorry for him, can I?" she said wistfully.

He bent and kissed her. "It's a wasted sentiment, my child; but if it
pleases you to be sorry, I have no objection."

"He is much nicer than you think," she pleaded.

He laughed at that. "I've known him from his cradle. He's a typical
Wyndham, you know. They are all charming in one sense, and all rotten in
another."

"Oh, Max!" she protested.

"I'm an exception," he said; "neither charming nor rotten. Now, my dear,
since your estimable little chaperon has deserted you it's up to me to
send you to bed. Do you want a drink before you go?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "No, I don't want anything. I
feel as if I had had too much already. I don't want to go to bed, Max. I
don't want to end this perfect day."

"There is always to-morrow," he said.

"No; but to-morrow won't be the same. And the time goes so fast. Very
soon you will be going too."

"It will soon be Midsummer Day," smiled Max.

She gave a sudden, sharp shiver. "Lots of things may happen before
then."

He held her closely to him for a moment, and in the thrilling pressure
of his arms she felt his love for her vibrate; but he made no verbal
answer to her words.

Slowly at length she released herself. "Well, I suppose I must say
good-night. I hope you will be comfortable. You are sure you have all
you want?"

"Quite sure," he said.

"Then good-night!" She went back for a moment into his arms. "I wonder
Nick isn't here. Do you think he can have gone to bed?"

"Haven't an idea," said Max. "Anyhow I don't want him. And it's high
time you went. Good-night, dear!"

Again closely he held her; again his lips pressed hers. Then, his arm
about her, he led her to the door.

They parted outside, she glancing backward as she went, he standing
motionless to watch her go. At the last she kissed her hand to him and
was gone.

He turned back into the room with an odd, unsteady smile twitching the
corner of his mouth.

The hand with which he helped himself to a drink shook slightly, and he
looked at it with contemptuous attention. His favourite briar was lying
in an ash-tray, where he had left it earlier in the day. He took it up,
filled and lighted it. Then he sauntered out on to the verandah, drink
in hand.

The night was dark and chill. He could barely discern the cypresses
against the sky. He