th the tea-tray in
the twilight.

"We'll have a light," cried Peter, and struck one of his own with a
shadowy underthought of saving Mary Ann from a possible scolding, in
case Lancelot's matches should be again unapparent. Then he uttered a
comic exclamation of astonishment. Mary Ann was putting on a pair of
gloves! In his surprise he dropped the match.

Mary Ann was equally startled by the unexpected sight of a stranger,
but when he struck the second match her hands were bare and red.

"What in heaven's name were you putting on gloves for, my girl?" said
Peter, amused.

Lancelot stared fixedly at the fire, trying to keep the blood from
flooding his cheeks. He wondered that the ridiculousness of the whole
thing had never struck him in its full force before. Was it possible
he could have made such an ass of himself?

"Please, sir, I've got to go out, and I'm in a hurry," said Mary Ann.

Lancelot felt intense relief. An instant after his brow wrinkled
itself. "Oho!" he thought. "So this is Miss Simpleton, is it?"

"Then why did you take them off again?" retorted Peter.

Mary Ann's repartee was to burst into tears and leave the room.

"Now I've offended her," said Peter. "Did you see how she tossed her
pretty head?"

"Ingenious minx," thought Lancelot.

"She's left the tray on a chair by the door," went on Peter. "What an
odd girl! Does she always carry on like this?"

"She's got such a lot to do. I suppose she sometimes gets a bit queer
in her head," said Lancelot, conceiving he was somehow safe-guarding
Mary Ann's honour by the explanation.

"I don't think that," answered Peter. "She did seem dull and stupid
when I was here last. But I had a good stare at her just now, and she
seems rather bright. Why, her accent is quite refined--she must have
picked it up from you."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" exclaimed Lancelot testily.

The little danger--or rather the great danger of being made to appear
ridiculous--which he had just passed through, contributed to rouse him
from his torpor. He exerted himself to turn the conversation, and was
quite lively over tea.

"Sw--eet! Sw--w--w--w--eet!" suddenly broke into the conversation.

"More mysteries!" cried Peter. "What's that?"

"Only a canary."

"What, another musical instrument! Isn't Beethoven jealous? I wonder
he doesn't consume his rival in his wrath. But I never knew you liked
birds."

"I don't particularly. It isn't mine."

"Whose