u
remember that wet afternoon when you sang? I did not seem able to write
at all that afternoon."

The basket was full of fruit by now; Margot lifted it by one handle;
George Elgood lifted it by the other. They walked down the sunlit
garden into the house.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

TROUT FISHING.

There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her
eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the
piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers,
and chewed his moustache.

"Er--" he began haltingly at last. "How do you think it has gone?"

"You mean the--"

"Picnic! Yes. My first entertainment. I feel responsible. Think they
enjoyed it at all?"

"I'm sure of it. Immensely! They thawed wonderfully. Think of the
duet! To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation. It has been a
delightful change from the ordinary routine. And the trout! The trout
was a huge success. How amiable of it to let itself be caught so
conveniently!"

The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced
fisherman.

"There was not much `let' about it. He led me a pretty dance before he
gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win. Do you
know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?"

"I?" Margot laughed happily. "Just as much as I have gleaned from
watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent's Park! I don't think I
have ever particularly wanted to know more. It seems so dull to stand
waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case
you may scare it away! What do you think about all the time?"

He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement.
Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near
together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a
step further in the history of their acquaintance.

"He really _is_ young!" decided Margot, with a sigh of relief. "It's
only the frown and the stoop and the eyeglasses which make him look as
if he were old."

George Elgood looked into the pink and white face, and his thoughts
turned instinctively to a bush of briar roses which he had seen and
admired earlier in the day. So fresh, and fair, and innocent! Were all
young girls so fragrant and flower-like as this? Then he thought of the
little prickles which had stung his hand as he had picked a bud from the
same bush for his buttonhole, and smiled with la