to keep you here on the off-chance that something may
turn up."

"Some_body_'s turning up," said Rose, hurriedly assuming a sitting
posture, "and we had better get up."

I imitated her example, and saw that the Cynic had leaped the wall and
was coming towards us.

I did the necessary introductions and we sat down again. "I called,"
said the Cynic, "in the hope that there might be a clock to regulate or
a creeper to nail up, in which case I might earn a cup of tea. Also,
to make arrangements for my photograph."

"I couldn't expect you to do any work in those clothes," I replied.
"Is this a visit of ceremony, or have you come in your Sunday best in
order to have your portrait taken? All my local sitters insist upon
putting on the clothes in which they feel and look the least
comfortable."

"No," he said, with a glance at his black trousers--the rest of him was
hidden by a light dust-coat--"the fact is, I am dining with the vicar
and spending the night at the vicarage. I must go to town on Saturday,
but to-day and to-morrow are free. I propose, with your gracious
permission, to spend an hour here, walk on to Fawkshill, and return
to-morrow for the dread operation to which I have referred."

"I am afraid it will not be convenient to-morrow," I said; "really I am
very sorry to upset your plans, but Miss Fleming returns to town on
Saturday, and we have promised ourselves a full day on the moors. Of
course, if you could come very early----"

Rose interrupted. "Don't let me hinder business, my dear Grace, or I
shall have you on my conscience, and that will be no light burden. We
can modify our arrangements, of course."

"What about my conscience, in that case?" said the Cynic. "I am not
really very particular about the photograph, especially in my 'Sunday
best,' and I can easily come up some other day. But--who is going to
carry the luncheon basket?"

"There is no basket," I returned; "our arrangements are much more
primitive, and the burden grows lighter as the day proceeds. Moreover,
I don't think it is very nice of you to suggest that the photograph is
of slight importance. Don't you realise that it is my living?"

"I realise the truth of the poet's assertion that woman is 'uncertain,
coy, and hard to please.' A moment ago you were declining
business--declining it with an air of polite regret, it is true, but
quite emphatically. Now, when I not only refuse to disturb your
arrangements, but actually