ed more readily in that spot than in any other. My novel was
taking shape. It was to be called, by the way, if it ever won through
to the goal of a title, "The Brown-haired Girl."

I had not been inside the professor's grounds since the occasion when
I had gone in through the boxwood hedge. But on the afternoon
following my financial conversation with Ukridge I made my way thither
after a toilet which, from its length, should have produced better
results than it did.

Not for four whole days had I caught so much as a glimpse of Phyllis.
I had been to the links three times, and had met the professor twice,
but on both occasions she had been absent. I had not had the courage
to ask after her. I had an absurd idea that my voice or my manner
would betray me in some way.

The professor was not at home. Nor was Mr. Chase. Nor was Miss Norah
Derrick, the lady I had met on the beach with the professor. Miss
Phyllis, said the maid, was in the garden.

I went into the garden. She was sitting under the cedar by the tennis
lawn, reading. She looked up as I approached.

To walk any distance under observation is one of the most trying
things I know. I advanced in bad order, hoping that my hands did not
really look as big as they felt. The same remark applied to my feet.
In emergencies of this kind a diffident man could very well dispense
with extremities. I should have liked to be wheeled up in a bath
chair.

I said it was a lovely afternoon; after which there was a lull in the
conversation. I was filled with a horrid fear that I was boring her. I
had probably arrived at the very moment when she was most interested
in her book. She must, I thought, even now be regarding me as a
nuisance, and was probably rehearsing bitter things to say to the
servant for not having had the sense to explain that she was out.

"I--er--called in the hope of seeing Professor Derrick," I said.

"You would find him on the links," she replied. It seemed to me that
she spoke wistfully.

"Oh, it--it doesn't matter," I said. "It wasn't anything important."

This was true. If the professor had appeared then and there, I should
have found it difficult to think of anything to say to him which would
have accounted for my anxiety to see him.

We paused again.

"How are the chickens, Mr. Garnet?" said she.

The situation was saved. Conversationally, I am like a clockwork toy.
I have to be set going. On the affairs of the farm I could speak
fluently.