for fun--for fun!" he groaned. "And here we are held
up for goodness knows how long!"

"Why? Were you thinking of selling it?" He did not answer. "Do you
remember the second Mrs. Chapin?" she demanded.

This was a bold, brazen little black-browed woman--a widow for
choice--who on Sophie's death was guilefully to marry George for his
wealth and ruin him in a year. George being busy, Sophie had invented
her some two years after her marriage, and conceived she was alone among
wives in so doing.

"You aren't going to bring her up again?" he asked anxiously.

"I only want to say that I should hate any one who bought Pardons ten
times worse than I used to hate the second Mrs. Chapin. Think what we've
put into it of our two selves."

"At least a couple of million dollars. I know I could have made--" He
broke off.

"The beasts!" she went on. "They'd be sure to build a red-brick lodge
at the gates, and cut the lawn up for bedding out. You must leave
instructions in your will that he's never to do that, George, won't
you?"

He laughed and took her hand again but said nothing till it was time to
dress. Then he muttered "What the devil use is a man's country to him
when he can't do business in it?"

Friars Pardon stood faithful to its tradition. At the appointed time was
born, not that third in their party to whom Sophie meant to be so kind,
but a godling; in beauty, it was manifest, excelling Eros, as in wisdom
Confucius; an enhancer of delights, a renewer of companionships and an
interpreter of Destiny. This last George did not realise till he met
Lady Conant striding through Dutton Shaw a few days after the event.

"My dear fellow," she cried, and slapped him heartily on the back, "I
can't tell you how glad we all are. Oh, she'll be all right. (There's
never been any trouble over the birth of an heir at Pardons.) Now where
the dooce is it?" She felt largely in her leather-boundskirt and drew
out a small silver mug. "I sent a note to your wife about it, but my
silly ass of a groom forgot to take this. You can save me a tramp. Give
her my love." She marched off amid her guard of grave Airedales.

The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the
crest of a footless bird and the motto: "Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle."

"That's the other end of the riddle," Sophie whispered, when he saw her
that evening. "Read her note. The English write beautiful notes."

The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I