Evening Star Newspaper, December 10, 1922, Page 76

2 — THE SUNDAY The Simple Life Produces Some Frills Which Were Overlooked in the: Preliminary Program. F you will pass me my guitar.” sald George, “1 will sing to you." ¢ ] up.” T repl a novelty “For one who professes to be an artist,” returned George with un- ruffiled serenity, “vou are painfully lacking in sensibility. A man who can speak of ing up ten minutes after tea on a golden June even- ing—" “If you are going to get poetical, George,” 1 =aid, “1 would sooner you song. Here you are.” 1 reached out an arm into the tent and tossed him across the somewhat battered banjo which was lying on his bed. He caught it neatly with his left hand. “1 believe you would play cricket with a Stradivarius”” he said re- proachfully. “What shall 1 sing “Anything short “I shall went on, disregarding my interrup- tion. “I always feel very wistful after tea. Besides, I am in love with the bronze-haired girl at Otter's Holt. and perhaps she will hear me and think that I am unhappy.” “She Is much more likely to think that T am,” said I. “Fire ahead.” He twanged two or three experi- mental chords, tightened a couple of pegs, and then. settling down again in his basket-chair, launched out pa- thetically into the time-honored bal- lad of “London Bridge™: I would rather you washed d. It would be more of Hurry along. sorrow and sonz. All is vauity ‘neath the sun; Velvet and rags. o the world wazs, Until the river no more shall run. “T shall not applaud yo 1 said when he had finished. “You might mistike courtesy for an encore.” “I wonder if the bronze-haired girl | heard me?” murmured George, laying down the banjo. “Unless she is deaf,” T pointed out, | *she could scarcely have avoided it. She probably thinks we are a couple of music hall comedian: “Perhaps I had better call tomorrow . T looked him in the eyes. “George,” 1 observed. “if I find you thrusting your soclety on fenseless young woman 1 shall com- municate with the local policeman.” She is not defenseless,” objected George. “She has a dog and an old ‘woman with her; and as for youth— well, I am but a lad myself.” I laughed unkindly. “In the matter of hair,” ncing at the top of George's head. #ald George hastily, “has nothing to do with it. orescence, a hideous and perpetual reminder of our arboreal ancestry. “You had better tell her thaf replied. “She would appreciate 1 “I was not speaking of bronze hair. You never saw a bronze-haired mon- key.” “It may be dyed,” I suggested. George picked up his banjo. “Such blasphem: he sald, “de- serves a heavy punishment. I shall sing you ‘Beauty’s Eyes.’ " “Is there no option?” I pleaded. With his thumb on the strings, George paused. “Yes,” he said, “you can wash up." I aid. * ¥ ¥ % T morning at breakfast George announced his intentlon of walk- ing over to Chertsey. “They are taking entries for the regatta” he explained. to put our names down for the double punting.” “How about getting a couple of in- surance policies at the same time?” 1 suggested. (I have punted with George before.) “What's your program?” he inquir- ed, disregarding my excellent pro- posal. “T shall go up the Bourne,” I said. *I want to finsh my picture, and the light is just right this morning.’ ““Well, don't collar the sardines,” he replied selfishly. “I should like ‘em for supper.” He sauntered off about half-past 10, Stopping In the garden to pick our only carnation for his buttonhole. After some research I unearthed a Thned tongue, some bread and butter, & cake, and last, but not least, a bot- tle of claret. These I transplanted tenderly to the punt, and then, put- #ing in my painting materials, push- @4 off in leisurely fashion‘ up the Sackwater. As I passed Otter's Holt, the long, Jow, creeper-covered bungalow that adjoined our own camping ground, I caught a glimpse of the girl who had inflamed George's susceptible heart. She was lying in a deck- ohalr in the veranda, reading a book. By her side crouched a large brindled ‘dulldog, who looked up and emitted @ sharp “woof” as the splash of my punt pole reached his ears. His mistress put out a small reprov- fog hand. “Lie down, sir!” she said fa & voloe that no decent bulldog @ould possibly have resisted. are excuses for George,” I oaid to myself as an intervening eclump of willow shut out any further @bservations. ‘The Bourne, as is usual on week @ays, was delightfully deserted. I pushed my way slowly up its narrow course, thrusting aside the overhang- fag bushes and startling an occasional kingfisher into a streak of living blue. My destination was just around the fourth bend, a place where the sun- shine played a bewitching game of hide-and-seek through the branches of an elm. It was this tracery of light and shadow that I was attempt- ing to transfer to my canv: For about an hour-I labored at my pisture with commendable industry. But somehow or other I did not make as rapld progress as such diligence deserved. A vision of a girl with bronze hair kept flitting before my eyes in the most elusive and discon- certing fashion. Once I actually found myself murmuring, “Lie down, sir!” apparently in an attempt to the peculiar charm with which these three words seemed to be assoclated. Feor a person of well regulated mind this was distinctly humiliating. I be- gan to take myself to task. “Because a young woman happens to address & bulldog In your hearing.” I in- quired, “is that any reason why you should waste an entire morning?” Getting no reply, I continued with increasing sternness: “You are as bad as George. You are making an idiot of yourself over a red-haired slipof & wirl whom you have only seen about three times in your life. Why, if it comes. to that, you don’t eveh know am disgusted with sing something sad.” he sald George thought- | that de- 1 said.. Hair is an ex- ! “And I want | | | | i { | l ! ELIEVED by this Johnsonian re- buke, I again turned to my pic- ture and for twenty minutes or so { worked on with unruffled concentra- tion. Then It suddenly occurred to me that I was hungry. T moved aside my paints, carefully laid down the canvas in the end of the punt, and, pulling out the lunch- eon basket from under the seat, be- gan to prepare my frugal but well earned meal. The tongue, my chef d@'ocuvre, was incased in one of those ingenious tins which you open by twisting a key. I was deep iIn this fascinating process when my ears were assailed by the sudden splash of an approaching craft. I looked up with a frown. Such an me to savor of gross impertinence. I had come to regard the Bourne as my private property, which I was magnanimous enough to open to the public on Saturdays and Sundays. And here was some coarse-grained stranger thrusting his way in at 1 o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. “In future,” I said to myself, “I shall mine the channel.” Nearer and nearer came that offen- sive splash, varied by the octasional swish of a parted bush and the creak- ing of an indifferently handled punt pole. Assuming an expression of cold displeasure, I sat up and waited on fate. At last the nose of a punt thrust itself around the bend and a moment later the intruder emerged into full view. In my agitation I dropped the tongue in the butter. It was the bronze-haired girl from Otter’s Holt! Then a series of incidents occurred with the bewildering rapidity of a cinematograph. Disturbed, appar- ently, by my unfortunate lapsus linguae, the bulldog, which was crouching In the stern of the punt, leaped forward, barking his defiance. In his ardor he cannoned heavily against a basket reposing on the seat. There was a splash, a cry of despalr from the bronze-haired maiden, and the aforesaid basket settled down peacefully at the bottom of the Bourne. Let it be stated to my credit that I rose to the situation with some promptness. Unhitching the painter by a dexterous twitch, I snatched up my pole, and, with a couple of sharp shoves, sped gracefully to the rescue. “I am so sorry,” I sald. “I am afraid I frightened your dog. May I make amends by getting out the bas- ket?" “It's very kind of you,” she sald simply. “Of course, it wasn't your fault at all. Come here, sir!” This last to the dog. I turned my sleeves up to the shoul- ders and, leaning over the side of the punt, groped down through the shal- low water until T got hold of the handle. Then, dripping but triumph- ant, I extracted my burdea. “I hope there is nothing to spoll in it,” 1 said. She smiled and shook her head. “It's only & matter of a few sand- wiches. I am very much obliged to you, and extremely sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble.” intrusion on my privacy scemed to-| = 75'!{" | | “On-the contrary.” T reptica, “it is I and the dog who ought to apologize to you." ((I CAN'T imagine why he was so silly,” she sald, administering a reproving pat to the animal, who still eyed me with some disfavor. “As a rule, he is as good as gold in a boat.” “What do you call him?" I inquired in a shameless attempt to prolong the | conversation. “Winston Churchill,” she sald, with another smile. “He was christened before I got him.” “His jaw is certainly well devel- oped,” I observed. She laughed, and a short pause fol- lowed. - “Well,” she sald, “I must be getting back.” “But really,” I protested, “you have only just arrived.” Then a sudden fit of recklessness seized me. “Don’t go because your lunch is spoiled,” I pleaded. “I have a whole tongue, to say nothing of some excellent bread and some good, if rather dilapidated, butter. As the destroyer of your sandwiches I can surely without im- pertinence offer you a fair compen- sation.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Oh, I don't think you are imperti- nent," she said, “but I believe that no really nice girl ever accepts an invi- tation from a perfect stranger. It would distress me to think that I was outside the pale.” : Her brown eyes twinkled so deli- clously that I cast subterfuge to the winds. “Do stay,” I begged. “I have been alone all the morning wrestling with an obstinate picture, and I am des- perately in need of a little cheering society. Besides, there is nothing so very unconventional in the idea. ‘Winston Churchill will make a most efficient chaperon.” She wavered. “And you can cut me afterward, added. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Your arguments,” she said, “are most persuasive.” We pulled the two punts alongside each other and fastened them to the bank. By this time Winston Churchill seemed to have accepted me as & harmless and necessary evil. He sat up in the stern and watched me with intelligent interest while I completed my preparations for lunch. “You are in his good books now,” said the bronze-haired girl, stroking him gently down the back with her fingers. *“He thinks that people who :;o ide food cannot be altogether ad. . I handed her the plate. g “To give tongue,” I sald, “is the recognized method of expressing friendship in canine circles.” “And, I suppose, giving the only plate implies the same among human beings?"* 0 “George and I generally eat off pa- per,” I replied. “We prefer it.” We are leading the simple life.” “Yes,” she maid; “T heard you yes- terday. If I remember rightly, you had srrived at the conclusion that all was vanity.” - g 5 £ * X ¥k . - ) T STAR, WASHINGTON, THE BRONZE-HAIRED G , BUT TRIUMPHANT, I EXTRACTED MY BURDE T held out a cunningly carved slice of bread-and-butter “George,” 1 said, “was responsible for the song and Solomon for the sentiments. I am innocent.” She accepted both the bread-and- | butter and the apology. “You are an artist,” she said, “to say nothing of being a knight-errant. One cannot have all the talents.” “When I was a small boy, marked, “I remember T had a nurse who used to check my Inciplent tend- ency to sarcasm by saying warningly: | ‘Hush, Master Jack! No one will love you If you talk llke that." “No, no!" she cried, with a protest- ing little laugh. “I really meant it for a compliment. I paint very badly myself, but I know good work when I see it. Yours is delightful.” “I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion,” I i sald. She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock bewll- derment. “And who is Mr. Rosenthal? sounds very rich.” “He is a patron of the arts,” I ex- plained. “His father provided the British army with shoe leather for some years, and the son dispenses the proceeds from a castle at Cookham. This trifle has been commissioned for the banquet hall.” “You must feel very proud,” she ob- served gravely. “May I look at it more closely?’ 1 handed her the canvas, and, prop- ping it up in her punt, she proceeded to criticize #t with an intelligence and knowledge that considerably surprised me. “I have my doubts as to your paint- ing so badly,” I said, with some sus- plcion. She shook her head. “My father i{s an artist,” she an- swered. “I have inherited his taste without his abilities.” “Has he taste for cheap claret?’ I inquired, holding up the bottle. “For about half a glass, I think.” I poured it out, and filled my own. “To Mr. Rosenthal,” she sald gayly. “For my own part,” I sald, “I shall drink to Winston Churchill. I findhis habit of upsetting baskets a most commendable one.” * % % % He WE passed on unhurriedly to the cheese and cake courses. Asour acquaintance mellowed, ‘the almost nervous flippancy with which we had bridged over its earlier stages gradu- ally died away. Quite unaffected, and gifted with a most refreshing sense of humor, the bronze-haired girl proved a delightful companion. She had evidently been brought up in an unusual sort of atmosphere, for she chatted away easily about art and books and people without a trace of that embarrdssing shyness of opinion which seems to be the hallmark of a conventionally educated girl. On the ground that she was chiefly responsible for their present condi- tion, she insisted on helping me wash up our scanty luncheon outfit. “A plate is such a nice, clean thing by nature,” she said, swishing it about D. Y N S in the water, “that I always think one ought to attend to it immediately after lunch. It must suffer horribly ) if you leave it Iving about all covered with grease or jam. I think I shall start a society for the prevention of cruelty to plates.” thing Into the basket, she accepted one of those excellent Russian cigar- ettes which my friend M. Demidoff makes for me, and, arranging our cushions, we lay back luxuriously fn our respective punts and talked alm- lessly, volubly and cheerfully about everything on God's earth. From where I was lying I could just see the tip of her nose, and I directed my conversation to that. By 3 o'clock I had declded firmly that arrangements must be made which would involve the possibility of our meeting freely in the future; and when at 4 she sat up suddenly and "said she must go home, I had arrived at a state in which I was quite unable to contemplate existence with- out her. “We shall expect you to tea tomor- row, then,” she sald, “provided it Is not too violent a break in the simple life. Of course, if Mr. George likes to bring his' banjo—" Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “No—No,” I interrupted; “don’t let us be morbid 6n a day like thia’ She gave me her dear, cool, slender hand for a moment, and then, with the blessed Winston Churchill sitting up amiably in the stern of the punt, she pushed off down the stream. It was not until she had vanished around the bend that I remembered I kad never asked her name. George was still away when I got back. As it was after 5, however, I ldaclded not to wait for him. I put the kettle on the “primus,” and walk- ed about the bungalow, singing “Who Is Sylvania?” and other similar bal- lads, until it boiled over. Then I made tea, and sat down in a delighttully con- tented frame of mird. I was so happy that I ate all the sardines be- fore I noticed what I was doing. George came In a moment after, ‘ward. “Hello!” he said. fast?" “I breakfasted, George,” I answered, “exactly two centuries ago.” “Well, that must account for the horrible energy with which you're eat- ing now.” He looked around the table. “Here, hang it.” he added, in a sudden tone of horror, “you've fin- ished the .sardines!” “I am sorry, George, I said peni- tently. “I have been in a very ex- alted, spiritual meditation, and I did not notice what I was eating.” He sat down with a disbelleving grunt. “Still at break- * X X % [ 'ELL, next time an attack comes on get out some of those moldy biscuits. This is a nice way to treat one who has been slaving for your. benefit. I was looking forward :to those sardines all the way home. “What have you been doing?” I in- quired in a timely effort to turn the conversation into & less polgn channel. 4 | George opened a bottle of bass and | the situation in that delightfully rea- | | helped himself to an fmpressive slice | sonable couplet: When we had packed away every- | C., DECEMBER 10, 1922—PART %. GIRL , ,)3‘ W BYy P 4 & ,//)’7 v, Z 7, e g 4 = Nbia ik ZCIEOGmSH ., o, =Y f# ¥ Z M S ";;yrg/) DG DSl Tl ¢ Z of cake. i “Well,” he said, “I shoved our |names down for the double punting; all right. As far as I can see, we've | got a jolly good chance, if you'll only} take it seriously.” i “I take it very serfously,” I inter-| rupted. “Barton was there.” went on George. | “He 1is entering with his brother. It would be rather fun if we were to | run up against them in the finals.” “We are certaln to do that,” I ob- served, “if we get so far. “I went back to Barton’s place to lunch,” said George. *“And, oh, by the | way, I found out all about the bronze- halred girl at Otter’s Holt. Barton | knows her well.” I struck a match to light my ciga- | rette. | “Indeed!” T remarked carelessly. i “Yes; she's married.” | T suppose I must have opened my | mouth, for the cigarette dropped on | the table. | “She's what?’ 1 exclaimed, after a | moment’s pause. ‘ “Marrie said George, with a laugh. “Her husband’'s In the wool market. His name's Congreve. Bar- ton says he's a very decent fellow. They've taken Otter's Holt for the sum- mer.” If you can imagine the end of the world coming just as you had inher- ited a large fortune you will get a very fair idea of my emotions at that moment. I stared at George in a kind of ghastly amazement; then, with an effort, I moistened my lips. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “It's true, though,” sald George. “Barton is coming over to stay with them next month. Just my atrocious luck! I always fall in love with women who either hate me or have already got husbands.” 1 suppose something in my face must have attracted his attention, for he stopped and looked at me curi- ously. “What's the matter, old man?’ he asked. ‘Feeling bad?™ With a big effort I pulled myself together, picked up the cigarette which I had dropped. “Nothing much, George,” I said. “I've got a bit of & headache. many sardines, I expect.” “You have been sitting about in the sun without & hat again,” said George severely. “I told you what would happen. Now, if you had a little less hair, like me, you might have a little more sense.” He got up and put his hand on my shoulder. “You tumble in and lie down,” he added. “I'll wash up.” Ana George did. I spent what I believe is generally called “a wretched night” It must have been about 2 in the morning when I finally consigned Barton and the bronze-haired girl and my own ridiculous emotions to the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely oyer on my side, dropped into a trou- bled, useless sort of sleep. I was awake again at 6, roused by the vigorous caroling of a thrush, whose own love affairs were appar- ently in excellent order. George was still sleeping. I crawled out care- fully so as not to disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river. Too EE | met with so disastrous a check. HERE was the promise of another . lovely day in the air, and the i i { i H e D e | moment he saw who it w For 1f she be mot for me, I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back. It comfort- ed me to persuade myself that I agreed with them. I found George outside the tent, shaving. ‘Hello!” he sald. “Feeling fitter?" | “I am quite well this morning, thank you, George.” I answered. i “In that case,” said he kindly, “you may cook breakfast. | 1 unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather elusive | slices around the fryingpan, I debated with myself as to whether I should mention the invitation to tea. I had| no Intention of going myself—that | would be altogether too great a strain | upon my philosophy—but as my ad- venture of the previous day was bound to come out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an afternoon’'s entertainment. Still, in my present state of mind, I shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be involv- ed by my telling him I felt that anything in the nature of chaff, even from George, would be quite unbear- able. So, like Mrs. Grimmage, “I just | went on cookin’ and said nuffin’. It was the boy from Dunton's boat- house who eventually supplied the solution to the problem in the shape | of the morning post. There was a| letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an exclamation of disgust. “What's the matter?” I inquired. +My future partner,” said George, “is | sick of & cold and desires me to come up to town for the d Fancy catch- ing cold this weather! “It suggests considerable skill,”I ad- mitted. “Are you going?" “Must,” answered George sadly. “He says that a man is coming to see us about designing some pigsties. In the present state of architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity. “From your 1deas of keeping the tent tidy,” I observed, “you ought to be an authority on the subject.” *“I shall be down by the six-thirty,"” said George. “What will you do with yourself?” +I shall spend the day,” I replied, “in trying to forget certain incidents which ought never to have happened.” “If you forget them all, cynically, “you will have a busy time.” My sel{-imposed program, though ex- cellent in theory, did not prove very successful in practice. George went off, and, having washed up the breakfast things, and tidied up the tent, I made an attempt to settle down to some black-and-white work, which an impa- tient editor had just reminded me was several days overdue. * % x % T the end of an hour all I had com- pleted was a very passable like- ness of Mre. Congreve punting. 1 sat and stared at it in a kind of stupid trance. It seemed impossible to believe that my beautitul romance of yesterday was dead and buried in some obscure vestry. My whole nature rose up in passionate revolt against such an in- creditable idea. All the pseudo-resig- nation on which I had prided myself in the early morning deserted me in the; hour of need. I began to recall the way | she spoke, the charming manner in; which the corners of her mouth turned ; up before she laughed, and the graclous warm early morning sunshine seem- ed to bathe one in a kind of comfort- ing care: By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on “| the bank my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to what I believed to be & more or less philosophic resignation. After all, I said to myself, there ‘was nothing to be gained by weeping and gnashing one’s teeth. It wasdi tinctly distressing that my only a tempt at falling in love should have Still, other people had had equally unpleas- ant experiences and had managed to rvive them. Was it not brave old ‘JGeorge Wither who had summed up atmosphere of tenderness and humor in ‘which she seemed to live. I At last, with a groan, I threw down | from chair. lh“'m }lv:n‘l ‘-:tu;;. = m"?’ stand uu-l any longer!” 1 walked to the door of the tent and looked out. Except for a couple of barges, emerging from the lock, the river was deserted. On the further bank, however, alongside of Dunton's ‘boathouse, a motor car was just dis- charging a giggling cargo of flimsily dressed damsels and beflanneled youths. I glanced at them inhospitably, and then a sudden idea struck me. Why nqt walk over to Brooklands and watch the motor racing? A savage four-mile-an- ’ BY VICTOR BRIDGES. hour tramp across the country was cx- actly the medicine I needed: and then there was always the chance of seeing somebody killed. I feel that a real good imaginary smash-up would appeal to me im- mensely in my present state of mind. ‘Without wasting any further time I picked up my hat and stick, and then, after looking in at Williamson's | bungalow, and asking him to keep an eye on our tent, I set off across the flelds in the direction of Wey- bridge. It was not until T had reached and was walking up the main stree! that [ remembered I had sent no message to Otter’s Holt. After all, I had accepted the invitation to tea, and some sort | of an excuse, however futile, was ob- viously needed. I turned in at the post office, and, after a moment’s hesita- tion, wrote out the following tele- gram: “Am very sorry we shall not be able to come to tea this afternoon. Calied away on urgent business.” Then, having put my name to this lie, I addressed it to Mrs. Congreve, Otter’s Holt, Shepperton, and handced it in. It Brooklands failed to provide me a catastrophe, it at least helped me to take my mind off my own affairs. * % * % T must have been well after 6 when 1 started to walk back to Shepper- ton. The evening was delightfully | warm and still, and, soothed by a mild Cabana, which my host had insisted on My accepting before I left, 1 stroll- ed leisurely on. wrapped once more in a kind of melancholy submission to destinv. I was even able to let my thoughts wander over the events of the previous afternoon without awak- ening any other emotion but a vague, luxurious sadness. For the moment 1 seemed to have escaped from my own personality and to be looking down like one of the gods with infinite pity upon the tragedy of human desire. Turning off half-way along the canal, I struck into a short cut which led across the fields to the spot where our tent was pitched. About half a mile from the river this path ran through the yard of the farm from which we purchased our eggs and lmilk At this point it was really a private thoroughfare, but the farmer. in view of George's profitable appetite, made no objection to our using it as often as we pleased. 1 was just opening the gate which led into the yard, when a sharp “woo0f” brought me to an abrupt halt. The wild suspicion that held me mo- mentarily paralyzed was confirmed a moment later. There was & pattering ? feet, and Winston Churchill sidled out from the porch of the house. The he sat | down in the mud and threw up his sccursed head in a howl of welcome. With a supreme cffort 1 turned to flee, but it was too late. The door of the farm opened, and—and—— God in heaven! How good it was to see her again! She was carrying a jug of milk ia her dear hands, and she stood still and looked at me with a grave smile. 1 took off my hat. “T hope.” she said, “that the urgent business has come to a successful conclusion.* 1 felt quite incapable of sayingany- thing except “Yes." “] am glad of that”" she went on. “because you missed a very good tea.” Then a sudden insanity gripped me by the throat, and I committed that most unpardonable of all blunders—] told the truth. “There was no urgent business!” ] ted out. *The telegram was a bl e’ She wrinkled up her forehead again, in that altogether adorable way of her own. “Indeed?” she said. “And why should you send me a lie?” 1 dropped the cigar which I was i holding, and ground it into the mud with my foot. “I heard you were marrie hoarsely. There was a moment's silence, and then, as I live, she began to laugh. *“Oh! e said, “that accounts for the telegram! But it sees a poor reason for wasting a cigar. I stared at her dully. “I suppose J " 1 said | must appear a particularly ludicrous sort of idiot,” I said. “My only ex- cuse is that I can't help it. Good- bye!” She put out one hand. as though t¢ stop me. “Before you go." she suid gently, “you might tell me when 1 was mar- ried. After all, it's only natural thal I should be a little interested in the matter.” 1 clutched hold of the gate. Every- thing except her face had suddenly become dim and distant. “Do you mean—do you mean to say s it's a mistake?" I gasped. ‘here are some people,” she an- sald George | sywered mischievously, “who say thal marriage is always a mistake.” “But George—Barton—Congrev: stammered. “You have not got his Christiar grumbling, at about half-past eight, |, mes quite right,” she interrupted “They are Walter Vernon. I know. you see, because he happens to be my brother-in-law.” * * % % LAID my head down on the gate, and relieved my feelings in an in- sane outburst of laughter. When | felt better 1 straightened myself an¢ wiped my eyes. “George is responsible.” I said. “Hq came home yesterday and told me thai you were.” “Untruthfulness,” she answered smiling, “seems to play an importan! part in the simple life.”” “He had described you to a mar called Barton,” I explained, “and th¢ scoundrel had pronounced you to by Mrs. Congreve.” “Ah,” she said, “my sister also hai red halr. I looked at her for a moment, an then suddenly all the ridiculous lit- tle trimmings of life whisked away into the infinite. I opened the gat( and took the milk jug out of her hands. “T love you!” I said simply. “That is very nice of you,” she an: swered: “but do be careful with the milk.” “1 love you,” I repeated, with firm mess, “and 1 want you to marry me”’ The corners of her mouth twitche¢ divinely. - “This,” she said, “is no place for 2 proposal. If you really want to marry me you must come to Otter's Holl and woo me properly.” But her eyes had given me my an- I'n‘r. 3 Victor All rights reserved.)