ould prefer his little cottage to
the broader delights of surveying mankind from China to Peru.

The man had possibilities, too. For instance, he knew how to dress.
There was an air about his flannels, a suggestion in his Norfolk suits.
He had the knack of the tie so that it sat just right, and his boots....
A clean-cut face, very tanned; deep, clear gray eyes, very steady. He
was like a dog attached very much to a careless master. The thing had
been going on for five weeks.

Ethel was staying with the Frodshams. They were poor for their position,
albeit given to hospitality--at a price. Most people call this kind of
thing taking in paying guests. It was a subject delicately veiled.
Ethel had come down for a fortnight, and she had stayed five weeks.
Verily the education of John Chesney was a slow process. Chesney was a
visitor in the neighborhood, too; he had a little furnished cottage just
by the Goldney Park lodge gates, where a house-keeper did for him. As
for the rest he was silent. He was a very silent man.

It was too hot for tennis, so the two had wandered into the woods. A
tiny trout stream bubbled by, the oak and beech ferns were wet with the
spray of it. Between the trees lances of light fell, shafts of sunshine
on Ethel's hair and face. It was at this point that Chesney made the
original remark. It slipped from him as naturally as if he had been
accustomed to that kind of thing.

"I am afraid you got that from Mr. John Kennedy," Ethel said. "I am sure
that you have seen Mr. Kennedy's comedy 'Flies in Ointment.' Confess
now!"

"Well, I have," Chesney confessed accordingly. "I--I saw it the night it
was produced. On the whole it struck me as rather a feeble thing."

"Oh, really? We are getting on, Mr. Chesney. Let me tell you that I
think it is the cleverest modern comedy I have ever seen."

"Yes! In that case you like the part of 'Dorothy Kent?'"

Ethel's dainty color deepened slightly. She glanced suspiciously at the
speaker. But he was gazing solidly, stolidly, into space--like a man who
had just dined on beef. The idea was too preposterous. The idea of John
Chesney chaffing her, chaffing anybody.

"I thought perhaps you did," Chesney went on. "Mr. Kent is a bit of a
butterfly, a good sort at the bottom, but decidedly of the species
lepidopterae----"

"Stop!" Ethel cried. "Where did you get that word from? Whence comes it
in the vocabulary of a youth--a youth? Oh, you know what I mean."

"I beli