-"

"The Bishop's a great anti-divorce man, and old Buckwell 's been in the
court at least twice--"

"In the season of the year!"

"Will you please to take some tea, gentlemen?" said the voice of Phoebe
in the doorway.

"No, thank you, Phoebe. That girl ought to get married," went on Mr.
Dennant, as Phoebe blushingly withdrew. A flush showed queerly on his
sallow cheeks. "A shame to keep her tied like this to her father's
apron-strings--selfish fellow, that!" He looked up sharply, as if he had
made a dangerous remark.

The keeper he was watching us,
For him we did n't care!

Shelton suddenly felt certain that Antonia's father was just as anxious
to say something expressive of his feelings, and as unable as himself.
And this was comforting.

"You know, sir--" he began.

But Mr. Dennant's eyebrows rose, his crow's-feet twinkled; his
personality seemed to shrink together.

"By Jove!" he said, "it's stopped! Now's our chance! Come along, my dear
fellow; delays are dangerous!" and with his bantering courtesy he held
the door for Shelton to pass out. "I think we'll part here," he said--"I
almost think so. Good luck to you!"

He held out his dry, yellow hand. Shelton seized it, wrung it hard, and
muttered the word:

"Grateful!"

Again Mr. Dennant's eyebrows quivered as if they had been tweaked; he
had been found out, and he disliked it. The colour in his face had died
away; it was calm, wrinkled, dead-looking under the flattened,
narrow brim of his black hat; his grey moustache drooped thinly; the
crow's-feet hardened round his eyes; his nostrils were distended by the
queerest smile.

"Gratitude!" he said; "almost a vice, is n't it? Good-night!"

Shelton's face quivered; he raised his hat, and, turning as abruptly as
his senior, proceeded on his way. He had been playing in a comedy that
could only have been played in England. He could afford to smile now
at his past discomfort, having no longer the sense of duty unfulfilled.
Everything had been said that was right and proper to be said, in the
way that we such things should say. No violence had been done; he could
afford to smile--smile at himself, at Mr. Dennant, at to-morrow; smile
at the sweet aroma of the earth, the shy, unwilling sweetness that only
rain brings forth.

CHAPTER XXII

THE COUNTRY HOUSE

The luncheon hour at Holm Oaks, was, as in many well-bred country
houses--out of the shooting season, be it unde