find himself face to face with a man who had been his first servant when his battery had been in France.

For a moment the two footmen stared at one another. Then—

"Glad to see you, Walters," said Lyveden heartily.

"Same to you, sir," said Walters, touching his hat. "An', beggin' your pardon, sir, is Lady 'Elen at 'ome?"

"There's no Lady Helen here," said Lyveden. "This is Mrs. Slumper's house."

"Oh, very good, sir," said Walters jerkily. "Sorry to 'ave troubled you, sir." He touched his hat and turned away nervously….

Anthony continued to hold the door open till the car should have passed on.

Walters was making his report. It appeared that this was unsatisfactory, for a moment later he was again at the door.

"Excuse me, sir, but would you speak to my lady?"

Lyveden descended the steps.

From the luxury of a smart landaulette a dame of some consequence regarded him shrewdly. She had, of course, witnessed the comedy upon the steps.

"Who lives here?" she demanded haughtily.

Lyveden drew himself up.

"Mrs. Slumper, madam."

His statement was received with an irrational suspicion.

"Indeed! I didn't know that Lady Helen Amiens had let her house."

"Neither, madam, did I."

The great lady stared at Anthony, who looked straight ahead. Then—

"I—I beg your pardon," she murmured.

Anthony bowed and turned on his heel. As he passed Walters, who was standing wide-eyed, the latter touched his hat faithfully.

When the car had passed on, Anthony closed the door thoughtfully. It had not occurred to him that the house had been hired as it stood. Certainly the Slumpers had given no hint of such a state of affairs. Probably they felt it to be beneath their dignity. It being no affair of his, Lyveden decided to keep his own counsel.

* * * * *

Two days later Anthony visited Patch for the second time.

The same relentless train that had rushed the two down to Hertfordshire that dreadful Thursday had become an easy-going friend. By pocketing his lunch, Lyveden could catch it with anything under five minutes to spare. This gave the two another three-quarters of an hour.

Their second meeting was a replica of the first.

Anthony was admitted, announced his desire, and sat down in the dim hall. Presently a brisk familiar step made itself heard—firm little paws meeting the tough linoleum squarely—and Anthony rose to his feet. Out of a passage came Patch readily, the fair-haired girl behind him bidding him go ahead. For a moment he looked about him. Then he saw Lyveden, stiffened and stood stock still. The next second, with his body clapped to the floor, he had darted sharply across and, laying his head sideways, crouched at his idol's feet—an adoring suppliant, craving to be raised.

"Why, Patch——"

The white scrap quivered and flung up a panting visage. Lyveden stooped and gathered him in his arms. The terrier licked his face frantically. Then he squirmed like a mad thing till he was down, tore to a basket of logs, and of his strength brought a billet gripped in his big mouth and laid it at Anthony's feet.

The girl laughed merrily.

"What did I tell you?" said Lyveden. "It's just the way of his heart.
I must always have a present when I have been away."

Lord and squire went for a wonderful walk. The woodland and meadows of
Hertfordshire fairly beggared the Parks….

Tea at a tiny inn sunk in a dell through which a sleepy lane trickled between high banks—tea in the pocket garden under sweet-smelling limes, where stocks stood orderly and honeysuckle sprawled over the brick-nogging, brought back old days of happy fellowship, just to outshine their memory.

From the cool of the house came on a sudden the click of metal and the swift whirr of wheels. Somewhere a clock was in labour—an old, old timepiece, to whom the telling of the hours was a grave matter. A moment later a thin old voice piped out the birth of a new period.

Five o'clock.

Peacefully Lyveden expelled a cloud of smoke. He need not be moving for another quarter of an hour. Upon the warm red bricks at his feet Patch lay dozing after his dish of weak tea.

"Could you give it me in the garden?"

The fresh clear voice floated out of the doorway just in front of my lady herself. Arrived there, she stood for a moment looking pleasedly round. It is doubtful whether the old woodwork had ever before framed such a picture.

There was nothing remarkable about the dress, except her wearing of it. There is a grace of carriage that will make purple of sackcloth. Still, the gown was well cut of fawn-coloured stuff, which her stockings and shoes matched. Her face was generous—proud, too, yet tender and very beautiful. The soft rose of her cheeks, the misty blue of her eyes stood there for gentleness, the curve of the red lips for pride. Wisdom sat in her temples under the thick dark hair. Strength herself had moulded the exquisite chin. And a rogue of a dimple was there to mock the lot of them—the print of the delicate finger of Laughter herself, set in a baby's cheek twenty-five years before. A tiny watch upon a silk strap served to enhance the slenderness of a white wrist. Against the dark cloud of hair, which they were setting straight, the pointed fingers stood out like living statuary. Lifted elbows gave you the graceful line of her figure: the short skirt, ankles to match the wrists….

Looking upon her, Lyveden forgot the world. He may be forgiven, for she was a sight for sore eyes.

Having set her hair to her liking she put on her hat, pulling it down with a fine careless confidence such as no manner of mirror could give.

She had not seen Lyveden when Patch, counting her Irish terrier an intruder, took him suddenly by the throat….

In an instant the place was Bedlam.

My lady hovered about the combatants, one hand to her breast, the other snatching frantically at her favourite's tail: Lyveden leapt to his feet and, cramming his pipe into a pocket, flung himself forward: the mistress of the inn and her maid crowded each other in the doorway, emitting cries of distress: and the now ravening flurry of brown and white raged snarling and whirling upon the brick pavement with all the finished frightfulness of the haute école.

Arrived at close quarters, Anthony cast a look round. Then he picked up the pair anyhow and swung them into the water-butt two paces away.

For a moment the contents boiled, seething as if possessed. Then, with a fearful convulsion, the waves parted and the water gave up its prey. Two choking, gasping, spluttering heads appeared simultaneously: with one accord four striving paws clawed desperately at the rim of the butt. The fight was off.

Intelligently the girl stepped up on to a convenient bench, and Anthony lifted the Irish terrier out of his watery peril. As was to be expected, he shook himself inconsiderately, and Anthony, who was not on the bench, was generously bedewed. Then Patch was hauled out by the scruff of his neck…. So far as could be seen, neither of the dogs was one penny the worse. There had been much cry, but little wool.

Lyveden turned to my lady and raised his hat.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "My