is
understood in the present day!'

CHAPTER III

The following morning Miss Erskine was awakened at the unusual hour of
five a.m. by having her window broken by a large pebble. 'I tried
small ones first, but it was not a bit of good,' said Peter later, with
compunction.

Jane stirred sleepily, and flung her heavy brown hair upon the pillow.
This was probably some nonsense on the part of a young Wrottesley, and
Jane was not going to be taken in by it.

Next, the point of a fishing-rod was tapped against the pane; it was,
therefore, probably that particular Wrottesley boy whose passion for
fishing in the early hours of the morning was well known. Jane rubbed
the sleep from her drowsy eyes, and called out that she knew quite well
who it was, and that Cyprian was to go away at once.

'Jane,' said Peter's voice, 'I wish you would wake up and come down.
Toffy's had a horrid smash. He says he 's all right, and he won't go
to the doctor, but his hand is badly cut and he has had a nasty knock
on his head.'

'Oh, Toffy!' said Jane, 'you 've been in the wars again!' She had
descended from her bedroom, and had now unbarred the windows of her own
sitting-room and stepped out on to the dewy grass in the clothes which
she had hastily put on, her heavy brown hair, tied loosely with a
ribbon, falling down her back. The windows of her boudoir were
protected by green wooden jalousies and were considered a safeguard
against thieves.

'This is awfully kind of you, Jane,' said Toffy. 'I don't think there
is really much the matter with me.'

He came inside the sitting-room and Peter made him lie down on the
sofa. There was a bruise on one side of his head, and his hand was
bound up with a pocket-handkerchief drenched with blood.

'Don't look at it,' said Jane. 'Just stretch out your hand like that,
and I 'll bathe it.' She had the simple remedies which Miss Abingdon
kept in the house--boracic lint and plaster. Nigel Christopherson lay
on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling, because, as Jane had somehow
divined, he hated the sight of blood; and he discoursed gravely on his
misfortunes while she dressed the ugly wound and bound and slung his
hand.

'Talk of sick-nurses!' muttered Peter, and wondered how it was that
Jane was able to do everything better than other people could;
although, indeed, the bandaging showed more tenderness than skill, and
there was something almost pathetically youthful and inconsequent