o, and the motor is to be run on the strictest lines of
economy. I am not sure that he is not going to water the petrol to
make it go farther.'

'I don't quite see Toffy steering anything,' said Jane, laughing with
great enjoyment at the recollection of Toffy's mad riding; 'he can
never take his horse through a gate without scraping his leg against
it.'

'So Toffy generally goes over the gates,' said Peter, laughing also;
'and probably he 'll try the same sort of thing with the motor-car.'

'Toffy _is_ an ass!' said Jane affectionately.

'I am sure it is time I should go and mount guard,' said Miss Abingdon
anxiously, from her post by the window. 'Why should they sit together
under the cedar tree like that unless they are making love?' She
stepped out on to the lawn with a garden-hat placed above her cap and a
sun-umbrella held over her head.

'Aunt Mary,' said Jane, 'Toffy's got a new motor! Isn't it fearfully
exciting! We are going for a serpentine run with him, and our
next-of-kin are going to divide Peter's and my insurance between them
if we never come back again. Be sure you claim all you can get if I
depart in pieces!'

Miss Abingdon laughed. She knew she was weak even where she
disapproved of her niece. Jane never kept anything from her, and she
would tell her aunt ridiculous items of sporting intelligence which
were as Greek to that excellent lady, and would talk to her as to any
other really good friend. Miss Abingdon was conscious of the charm of
this treatment, but the disciplining of youth was important, and Jane
required both training and guidance.

'I can't think why,' she said severely, 'you should call a young man
Toffy. It is a name I should hardly liked to have called a dog when I
was a girl.'

Peter raised his fair eyebrows and looked distressed. 'I don't see
what else you could call a man named Christopherson,' he said. 'You
couldn't call him Nigel--that's Toffy's front name--and I 'm afraid he
hasn't got any other. I believe fathers and mothers think you must be
going to die young when they give you a name like that, and that it
will look well on a tombstone.'

'You shouldn't joke about death, Peter,' said Miss Abingdon. She felt
almost as though she saw an ally approaching when she perceived the
Reverend Canon Wrottesley come up the drive to call for his wife on the
way to the vicarage. Miss Abingdon had long ago accepted with
thankfulness St. Paul's recommendation to us