ap on the
British Sabbath. Besides, I am all behindhand with my letters, and my
father will be telegraphing something emphatic if I don't go beyond
'Much love' on a picture postcard."

"Symon's Yat is exceptionally beautiful, and there is a capital little
hotel there. The Wye runs past the front door, the boating is superb,
and there will be a brilliant moon after dinner."

"And the answer is?"

"That we could run into Hereford before breakfast, leaving you plenty
of time to attend the morning service at the cathedral."

Cynthia did not look at him or she would have seen that he was rather
baronial in aspect just then. Sad to relate, they were speeding down
the Wyndcliff gorge without giving it the undisturbed notice it
merited.

"I have a kind of notion that Mrs. Devar wouldn't catch on to the
boating proposition," she said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps not, but the river takes a wide bend there, and she could see
us from the hotel veranda all the time."

"Guess it can't be fixed up, anyhow," she sighed.

Twice had she lapsed into the idioms of her native land. What, then,
was the matter with Cynthia that she had forgotten her self-imposed
resolution to speak only in that purer English which is quite as
highly appreciated in New York as in London?

It was Saturday afternoon, and they overtook and passed a break-load
of beanfeasters going to Tintern. There is no mob so cruelly sarcastic
as the British, and it may be that the revelers in the break envied
the dusty chauffeur his pretty companion. At any rate, they greeted
the passing of the car with jeers and cat-calls, and awoke Mrs. Devar.
It is a weakness of human nature to endeavor to conceal the fact that
you have been asleep when you are supposed to be awake, so she leaned
forward now, and asked nonchalantly:

"Are we near Hereford?"

"No," said Cynthia. "We have a long way to go yet." She paused. "Are
you really very tired?" she added, as an afterthought.

"Yes, dear. The air is positively overpowering."

There was another pause.

"Ah, well," sighed the girl, "we shall have a nice long rest when we
stop for tea at--at--what is the name of the place?"

"Symon's Yat."

Medenham's voice was husky. Truth to tell, he was rather beside
himself. He had played for a high stake and had nearly won. Even now
the issue hung on a word, a mere whiff of volition: and if he knew
exactly how much depended on that swing of the balance he might have
been startled into