y the gate. Isn't it fun to make believe like children? We
don't often play, do we Philip? You must take my hand very gently,
under the hay," pulling the cushion over her wrist. "I draw it away,
you see, rather shyly, looking deliciously coy, and say: 'Oh! you
mustn't, Mr. Roche.'

"Then you are horribly audacious, and kiss me straight off, you know
how you used to. We are silent for a few moments, just holding each
others' hands in unspeakable content, the sort of ecstacy that comes
before marriage.

"We listen to the birds singing--a thrush keeps repeating my name--they
generally seem to say something. I remember one at home that used to
sit outside my window and chirp: 'Think of it! think of it! think of
it!' till I grow quite angry, always recalling an unpleasant incident.
'I _don't want_ to think of it!' I would declare, stamping my foot.
Oh! Philip, what a good actor you are! you look frightfully in love."

"I am," he murmurs tenderly, clasping her in his arms. Eleanor laughs
incredulously, and lays her head on his shoulder.

"Listen," she says, disengaging herself from his embrace. "We must not
shock Sarah!"

The door is flung open.

"Mr. Quinton."

Eleanor rises slowly, her eyes flash with strange brilliancy; she
trembles slightly, flushes, pales!

Her husband sees it in a moment--the rush of colour to her cheeks, and
the pallor as her hand meets Carol's.

Philip mutters something inaudible under his breath. The chilly air of
winter creeps through the hayfield behind Copthorne Farm--the voices of
birds are dead--it is cold, cruel January once more!

A horrible presentiment steals over him, numbing his senses--paralysing
his brain. This man seems their evil genius, the red firelight playing
on his tall slim figure, transforms him in Philip's eyes to a crimson
Mephistopheles. Eleanor pours out a fresh cup of tea, and hands it to
Mr. Quinton smilingly, as she did a moment ago to her husband.

She moves the poppy-patterned pillows for the new comer; he is beside
her now on the sofa.

Philip feels left out. A jealous pang shoots through him like the stab
of a knife, or the burning of iron red-hot on his flesh. Yet Eleanor,
unconscious of the evil feelings she arouses, takes but little notice
of her husband, and hangs upon Carol's words with eager interest,
agrees with all he says, prevents him leaving twice when he rises to
go, and hopes he will "look in again" soon.

"You might have as