an punted across to the island and the marooned Nancy was brought to
the mainland with her somewhat depleted store of provisions. Mr. Birket
dropped his role while the embarkation proceeded, and mopped his brow
with a bandana handkerchief. He was a short, grey-haired man with a keen
lawyer's face. "Well, my dear," he said to Cicely, "I think that went
off very well, but it is somewhat exhausting."

Cicely laughed. "The twins will never forget it," she said. "Did you see
them come out?"

"I saw them come on to the lake. I was in the Temple, getting through a
little work."

"What ever time did you get up?"

"Oh, half-past five. My regular hour in the summer. I'm kept pretty
busy, my dear. But I don't generally have such a charming place as this
to work in. Now then, pirate, hurry up with those victuals. Your uncle
is hungry."

They picnicked on the shore--the twins' provisioning having fortunately
been ample--and Mr. Birket proved himself an agreeable companion. Joan
said to Nancy afterwards that the practice of the law seemed to brighten
people's brains wonderfully. He smoked a cigar, told them stories, and
made them laugh. At half-past eight he fetched his papers from the
Temple and they went indoors to get ready for breakfast. "I think," he
said, as they crossed the lawn, "we had better say nothing about the
startling occurrences of the morning. They might come as a shock to our
elders and betters." And Joan and Nancy, remembering the contents of the
basket and the source from which they had been derived, agreed.

Herbert Birket was Mrs. Clinton's only brother. Their father had been a
Colonel in the Indian Army, and had retired to end his days in a little
house on the outskirts of Bathgate, desiring nothing more than to read
the _Times_ through every morning and find something in it to disagree
with, walk so many miles a day, see his son well started in the
profession he had chosen, and his daughter well, but not splendidly,
married. He had gained his desires in all but the last item. The young
Squire of Kencote, in all the glory of his wide inheritance and his
lieutenancy in the Household Cavalry, had ridden past the little house
on his way to Bathgate and seen a quiet, unassuming, fair-haired girl
watering her flowers in the garden, had fallen in love with her, met her
at a county ball, fallen still more deeply in love, and finally carried
her off impetuously from the double-fronted villa in the Bathgate Road