ot care to
forego, and it was easy enough to convince himself that he would be
powerless to influence Stella in any direction and that anyway, whether
he could or could not, it would be more serviceable for her character to
win or lose her own battles.

Michael and Guy left Oxford in the mellow time of an afternoon in
earliest August and rode lazily along the Cheltenham road. At nightfall,
just as the stripling moon sank behind a spinney of firs that crowned
the farthest visible dip of that rolling way ahead across the wold, they
turned down into Wychford. The wide street of the town sloped very
rapidly to a valley of intertwining streams whence the air met them
still warm with the stored heat of the day, yet humid and languorous
after the dry upland. On either side, as they dipped luxuriously down
with their brakes gently whirring, mostly they were aware of many white
hollyhocks against the gray houses that were already bloomed with dusk
and often tremulous with the voyaging shadows of candle-light. At the
Stag Inn they found a great vaulted parlor, a delicate roast of lamb, a
salad very fragrant with mint and thyme, cream and gooseberries and ale.

"This is particularly good ale," said Guy.

"Wonderful ale," Michael echoed.

Once again they filled their pewter mugs.

"It seems to me exceptionally rich and tawny," said Guy.

"And it has a very individual tang," said Michael. "Another quart, I
think, don't you?"

"Two, almost," Guy suggested, and Michael agreed at once.

"I vote we stay here," said Guy.

"I'll wire them to send along my books to-morrow," decided Michael.

After supper they went on down the street and came to the low parapet of
a bridge in one of whose triangular bays they stood, leaning over to
count in the stream below the blurred and jigging stars. Behind them in
the darkness was the melodious roar of falling water, and close at hand
the dusty smell of ivy. Farther exploration might have broken the spell
of mystery; so in silence they pored upon the gloom, until the rhythmic
calm and contemplation were destroyed by a belated wagon passing over
the bridge behind them. They went back to the Stag and that night in
four-posters slept soundly.

Next morning Michael and Guy went after breakfast to visit the bridge on
which they had stood in the starlight. It managed curiously to sustain
the romantic associations with which they had endowed it on the night
before. A mighty sycamore, whose roots