against one of the flower-filled urns, smiled as he glanced down at her. He was a young man of slender, wiry frame, with an air of graceful languidness which usually sat well upon him, though there were occasions on which it was not readily distinguished from well-bred insolence.

"I suppose it is, but they brought it upon themselves," he said. "Nobody would mind their walking quietly through the Dene, even if they did leave their sandwich papers and their bottles behind them."

"I have seen wire baskets provided in such places," said Grace.

The young owner of Holtcar Grange laughed. "So have I. In fact, I tried it here, and put up a very civil notice pointing out what they were for. The Hoddam people, however, evidently considered it an unwarrantable interference with their sacred right to make as much mess of another person's property as they pleased, for soon after the baskets arrived we found that somebody had taken the trouble to collect them and deposit them in the lake."

"A gardener could, however, pick up a good many papers in an afternoon."

"It would naturally depend upon how hard he worked, and, as you may have noticed, undue activity is not a characteristic of anybody at the Grange. Still, it would be several years before he made a young holly from which the leading stem had been cut out grow again; besides which the proletariat apparently consider themselves entitled to dig up the primroses and daffodils by basketfuls with spades."

Grace was not greatly interested in the subject, but it at least was safe, and Geoffrey Esmond's conversation had hitherto taken a rather more personal turn than she cared about.

"Still, you could spare them a few wild flowers," she said.

She turned and glanced across the velvet lawn towards the old grey house flanked by its ancient trees. The sunlight lay bright upon its time-mellowed façade, and was flung back from the half-hidden orchid houses and vineries. Esmond apparently understood her, and for a moment his eyes rested curiously upon her face.

"You mean I have rather more than my share of what most people long for? Still, you ought to know that nobody is ever quite content, and that what one has only sets one wishing for more."

Grace laughed. "One would certainly fancy that you had quite enough already—but I wonder if one might ask you if you have heard from Reggie lately?"

Esmond's face hardened a trifle. "You, at least, might. He does not write often—naturally—though I always had a fancy that Reggie mightn't, after all, have been so very much to blame as most people seem to think. Anyway, we had a letter a few weeks ago, and he had got his commission in the Canadian mounted police. He ought to be thankful—in the circumstances."

"I am pleased to hear it," and a just perceptible trace of colour showed in Grace's cheeks. "It is rather a coincidence that my father, who went up to London a week ago, came back with the expectation of obtaining a Government post in Western Canada, a Crown Commissioner on the new gold-fields I think. He was in charge of a mining district in Western Africa, you know. I should probably go to Canada with him."

"Then one would sincerely hope that Major Coulthurst will get a post at home."

He stopped, perhaps warned by something in his companion's attitude, and she deftly turned the subject back to the grievance the Hoddam people thought they had against him. The fact that they had apparently a good deal to say to each other had in the meanwhile not escaped attention. A few lounge chairs had been laid out about a little table in the shadow of a big chestnut, and from one of them a lady of some importance in that vicinity watched the pair with distinct disapprobation. Holtcar Grange was but a portion of young Esmond's inheritance, and she had several daughters of her own. She frowned as she turned to the lady nearest her.

"That girl," she said acidly, "is making excellent use of her opportunities. It does not appear to matter which one it is, so long as he belongs to the family."

Her companion looked up languidly. "The drift of that last remark is not especially plain."

"It would have been if you had seen what went on before Reggie Esmond went, or rather was sent, out to Canada. The major was in Africa then, and the girl was staying here. She was only just out of the schoolroom, but that did not prevent her attaching herself to Reggie. It was only when he was no longer worth powder and shot that she turned her attention to his cousin."

This, as it happened, was very little nearer the truth than such statements usually are, when made by a matron who has an unappreciated daughter's future to provide for; but the lady who heard it understood the reason for her companion's rancour.

"Grace Coulthurst," she said, "is pretty, and has really an excellent style. Besides, her father evidently has means of his own."

The first speaker smiled compassionately. "Major Coulthurst thrives upon his debts; he threw away what little money he had in speculation. Then he got himself sent out to West Africa, and either allowed the niggers too much of their own way or worried them unnecessarily, for they turned out and killed some of their neighbours who worked at the mines. That resulted in black troops being sent up, and Coulthurst, who led them into a swamp they couldn't get across, was afterwards quietly placed upon the shelf. In fact, I believe he pins his hopes upon the men appointed by the new Government remembering their unfortunate friends."

"That," remarked her companion drily, "is, after all, what a good many of us seem to think the Government is there for."

She might have said more, but a little, black-robed lady and a burly red-faced man with a merry twinkle in his eyes and a tinge of grey in his hair, appeared just then. The latter held himself well, and did not in the least look like a man who had borne much responsibility in pestilential Africa. As a matter of fact, Major Coulthurst, who was by no means brilliant either as administrator or soldier, took his cares lightly.

"And you fancy you will get the appointment?" asked Mrs. Esmond, looking up at him.

"I hope so," said Coulthurst. "I really think the people in office ought to do something for me. I contrived to save them a good deal of trouble with the French on the frontier. Still I don't know what to do with Grace if I get it, though I had thoughts of taking her out to Canada."

Mrs. Esmond appeared to reflect for a moment or two.

"Is there any reason why you shouldn't leave her here?" she said. "I think I took good care of her before."

They had almost reached the table where the others sat, and Coulthurst stopped with a shadow of perplexity in his sunburnt face. He was a widower with insufficient means, and had one or two somewhat pointed letters from importunate creditors in his pocket then. He had also been a friend of Mrs. Esmond's for more than twenty years, but, though by no means fastidious in some respects, there were points on which he possessed a certain delicacy of sentiment.

"I almost think there is. Grace, you see, is older now," he said.

Mrs. Esmond looked up, and, as it happened, Grace Coulthurst and Geoffrey Esmond came slowly towards them across the lawn just then. The young man's gaze was fixed upon the girl, but she was looking away from him, which increased the suggestiveness of his attitude and expression, for both of those who watched them could see his face. Grace was indeed distinctly pretty, and that afternoon the indefinite but unmistakable attribute which the woman who had defended her termed good style was especially noticeable. It was expressed in the poise of the little head, the erect carriage, and even the fashion in which the light draperies