to look at the gardens, she
walked between them, playing upon the primeval horticultural passions
which dominate the existence of all respectable and normal country
ladies, until the gulf between them was temporarily bridged. This being
achieved, she adroitly passed them over to Lady Anstruthers, who, Nigel
observed with some curiosity, accepted the casual responsibility without
manifest discomfiture.

To the aching Tommy the manner in which, a few minutes later, he found
himself standing alone with Jane Lithcom in a path of clipped laurels
was almost bewilderingly simple. At the end of the laurel walk was a
pretty peep of the country, and Miss Vanderpoel had brought him to see
it. Nigel Anstruthers had been loitering behind with Jane and Mary. As
Miss Vanderpoel turned with him into the path, she stooped and picked a
blossom from a clump of speedwell growing at the foot of a bit of wall.

"Lady Jane's eyes are just the colour of this flower," she said.

"Yes, they are," he answered, glancing down at the lovely little blue
thing as she held it in her hand. And then, with a thump of the heart,
"Most people do not think she is pretty, but I--" quite desperately--"I
DO." His mood had become rash.

"So do I," Betty Vanderpoel answered.

Then the others joined them, and Miss Vanderpoel paused to talk a
little--and when they went on she was with Mary and Nigel Anstruthers,
and he was with Jane, walking slowly, and somehow the others melted
away, turning in a perfectly natural manner into a side path. Their own
slow pace became slower. In fact, in a few moments, they were standing
quite still between the green walls. Jane turned a little aside, and
picked off some small leaves, nervously. He saw the muslin on her chest
lift quiveringly.

"Oh, little Jane!" he said in a big, shaky whisper. The following eyes
incontinently brimmed over. Some shining drops fell on the softness of
the blue muslin.

"Oh, Tommy," giving up, "it's no use--talking at all."

"You mustn't think--you mustn't think--ANYTHING," he falteringly
commanded, drawing nearer, because it was impossible not to do it.

What he really meant, though he did not know how decorously to say it,
was that she must not think that he could be moved by any tall beauty,
towards the splendour of whose possessions his revered grandmother might
be driving him.

"I am not thinking anything," cried Jane in answer. "But she is
everything, and I am nothing. Just look at he