fright at the things Mr. Gerard and Corrie and I like to do,
anyway, if he had stayed here. He was all nerves. So are you, for that
matter. You are worried over Corrie now, you know you are."

Flavia never quarrelled; she had an abhorrence of scenes. But that did
not imply a lack of capacity for anger. She rose, a straight, slim
figure in her blue morning-frock, the kitten in her arms.

"If I were with him, I should not be worried," she stated with dignity.
"I am never afraid when I am there to share what happens. I think I will
go upstairs."

And she went, leaving the other girl to devise her own amusements.

In her own room, Flavia pushed aside the window-curtains to look out. In
all the dripping landscape she saw no trace of her brother or their
guest; the guest, half of whose visit was now past. The next day would
be Sunday; one of the two weeks she had unreasoningly dreaded was gone,
already. Was she glad, or sorry? She did not know. But she continued to
look from the window; there was indeed a strong north wind blowing, and
Corrie, if not reckless, certainly used the least margin of safety.

It was impossible to be more safe from drowning than Corrie was at
that time. He was in fact on land as dry as the weather permitted,
engaged in operating a small ciderpress for the benefit of himself
and Gerard, at a certain old-fashioned farm where he was--as he
himself explained--persona very grata indeed.

"They are used to me," he supplemented. "Wonderful what people can get
used to, isn't it?"

"It surely is," Gerard agreed, from his seat on an overturned barrel. He
contemplated interestedly the picture Corrie presented with his sleeves
rolled to the elbow, his coat off and his bright hair flecked with
ruby-hued drops of the flying liquid. "See here, Corrie, what are you
planning to do with yourself?"

"Do? Meet Rupert and try out the _Dear Me_, of course. Why?"

"I didn't mean that way. College? Business?"

"Oh! Would you pitch over that tin-cup, please? Why, I am all through
college."

"Through it! Before you are nineteen?"

"Jes' so. Like to see the pretty blue-ribboned papers that prove it?" He
sat down on the press, drying his face with his handkerchief. "You see,
my father had tutors to lavish all their wisdom and attention on little
Corwin B. Rose, and I never had to wait while the rest of a class
ploughed along, so I got through the usual junk and was ready for
college at fifteen plus. So I entered