y had returned home
drunk. Swithin had hustled him away into his bedroom, helped him to
undress, and stayed until he was asleep. 'Too much of a good thing!'
he thought, 'before his own daughters, too!' It was after this that he
ordered his travelling carriage. The other occasion on which he packed
was one evening, when not only Boleskey, but Rozsi herself had picked
chicken bones with her fingers.

Often in the mornings he would go to the Mirabell Garden to smoke
his cigar; there, in stolid contemplation of the statues--rows of
half-heroic men carrying off half-distressful females--he would spend
an hour pleasantly, his hat tilted to keep the sun off his nose. The day
after Rozsi had fled from him on the stairs, he came there as usual. It
was a morning of blue sky and sunlight glowing on the old prim garden,
on its yew-trees, and serio-comic statues, and walls covered with
apricots and plums. When Swithin approached his usual seat, who should
be sitting there but Rozsi--"Good-morning," he stammered; "you knew this
was my seat then?"

Rozsi looked at the ground. "Yes," she answered.

Swithin felt bewildered. "Do you know," he said, "you treat me very
funnily?"

To his surprise Rozsi put her little soft hand down and touched his;
then, without a word, sprang up and rushed away. It took him a minute to
recover. There were people present; he did not like to run, but overtook
her on the bridge, and slipped her hand beneath his arm.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said; "you shouldn't have run away
from me, you know."

Rozsi laughed. Swithin withdrew his arm; a desire to shake her seized
him. He walked some way before he said, "Will you have the goodness to
tell me what you came to that seat for?"

Rozsi flashed a look at him. "To-morrow is the fete," she answered.

Swithin muttered, "Is that all?"

"If you do not take us, we cannot go."

"Suppose I refuse," he said sullenly, "there are plenty of others."

Rozsi bent her head, scurrying along. "No," she murmured, "if you do not
go--I do not wish."

Swithin drew her hand back within his arm. How round and soft it was!
He tried to see her face. When she was nearly home he said goodbye, not
wishing, for some dark reason, to be seen with her. He watched till she
had disappeared; then slowly retraced his steps to the Mirabell Garden.
When he came to where she had been sitting, he slowly lighted his cigar,
and for a long time after it was smoked out remained ther