about it. First I'm going to pay to learn it, and then I shall
earn quite a lot. It's a great hairdresser's."

"I think it's horrible, Gladys. Perhaps you'll fall in love with a
German hairdresser, and be lost to me for ever."

"I shan't fall in love with no foreigners, don't you fret."

"I'm not fretting. Will you have your hair done up?" he asked, lifting
the long plait.

"Well, of course I shall, and waved, and that."

"Gladys, they'll spoil you."

The conversation went on in this strain for some time. She alternately
repeated the exclamation, "How you do go on!" or accused him of the
mysterious crime of being a caution, but she never stopped looking
perfectly beautiful and seraphic.

When they went back to the garden a few other visitors had straggled in.
They all seemed to come in high dog-carts, and they always ordered eggs,
jam, and watercress with their tea, and were immensely impressed by the
Persian pheasants.

Vaughan went back to London feeling refreshed, and already, strangely,
counting the days till he could come back.

There was not a woman in the world he knew whom he would have taken the
slightest trouble to see except Gladys, the innkeeper's daughter. She
was an illiterate schoolgirl; and though she had a lovely face, she was
stupid, and probably not so angelic as she looked; but he always felt a
little disappointed as he drove back. He wished she were in love with
him.

And this ungratified wish was, in all his full life with its brilliant
success, perhaps his greatest real pleasure.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GREEN GATE

When Harry came down to breakfast, a little late, he found Valentia
waiting to pour out his coffee, and some letters on his plate. She
watched him as he opened them. Most of them looked like bills. On the
envelope of one was a little blue flag. Harry put this letter in his
pocket, and went on eating.

"It's a lovely morning, Harry. So fresh; just the sort of day not to do
anything at all."

"Ah! that's what's so delightful about you all," he answered. "You never
say, 'What shall we do?' and neither of you have ever said yet that this
is Liberty Hall, which means, as a rule, in a country house, 'Breakfast
at eight o'clock sharp, you won't mind it being a little cold if you're
late, and then we are going for a motor drive at 9.30.' Still, I think,
perhaps, one ought to take a little exercise. I feel almost equal to a
game of croquet this afternoon--later on--when I