nd blood.

"Well?" Andrew asked.

Duncombe returned to the table, and laid the picture down with a
reluctance which he could scarcely conceal.

"Very nice photograph," he remarked. "Taken locally?"

"I took it myself," Andrew answered. "I used to be rather great at that
sort of thing before--before my eyes went dicky."

Duncombe resumed his seat. He helped himself to another glass of wine.

"I presume," he said, "from the fact that you call yourself their
nearest friend, that the young lady is not engaged?"

"No," Andrew answered slowly. "She is not engaged."

Something a little different in his voice caught his friend's attention.
Duncombe eyed him keenly. He was conscious of a sense of apprehension.
He leaned over the table.

"Do you mean, Andrew----?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you mean----?"

"Yes, I mean that," his friend answered quietly. "Nice sort of old fool,
am I not? I'm twelve years older than she is, I'm only moderately well
off and less than moderately good-looking. But after all I'm only human,
and I've seen her grow up from a fresh, charming child into one of God's
wonderful women. Even a gardener, you know, George, loves the roses he
has planted and watched over. I've taught her a little and helped her a
little, and I've watched her cross the borderland."

"Does she know?"

Andrew shook his head doubtfully.

"I think," he said, "that she was beginning to guess. Three months ago I
should have spoken--but my trouble came. I didn't mean to tell you this,
but perhaps it is as well that you should know. You can understand now
what I am suffering. To think of her there alone almost maddens me."

Duncombe rose suddenly from his seat.

"Come out into the garden, Andrew," he said. "I feel stifled here."

His host rose and took Duncombe's arm. They passed out through the
French window on to the gravel path which circled the cedar-shaded lawn.
A shower had fallen barely an hour since, and the air was full of fresh
delicate fragrance. Birds were singing in the dripping trees, blackbirds
were busy in the grass. The perfume from the wet lilac shrubs was a very
dream of sweetness. Andrew pointed across a park which sloped down to
the garden boundary.

"Up there, amongst the elm trees, George," he said, "can you see a gleam
of white? That is the Hall, just to the left of the rookery."

Duncombe nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I can see it."

"Guy and she walked down so often after dinner," he said quietly