"Well--in fact--my father."

The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck Charlie.

"I say, did your father state it as a fact?"

"Oh no; but as a certainty, you know."

"When?"

"Last night at supper."

Charlie's brow clouded. Miss B--that is, Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening--that one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste's business), and that would not have pleased Charlie.

It was all very well for Charlie to count on that blessed evening; but he reckoned without his host--or rather without his guests.

The Bush.e.l.ls came to lunch, Millie driving her terrified mother in a lofty gig; and at lunch Millie recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron.

She did not believe it, of course; but it was queer, wasn't it? Victor Sutton rose to the bait at once.

"We'll investigate it," he cried. "Merceron," (he meant the patient Mr.

Vansittart), "didn't yon once write an article on 'Apparitions' for _Intellect_?"

"Yes, I proved there were none," answered Mr. Vansittart.

"That's impossible, you know," remarked Mrs. Marland gently.

"We'll put you to the proof this very evening," declared Mr. Sutton.

Charlie started.

"Are you game, Miss Bush.e.l.l?" continued Victor.

"Ye--yes, if you'll keep quite near me, answered Millie, with a playful shudder. Charlie reflected how ill playfulness became her, and frowned.

But Millie was pleased to see him frown; she enjoyed showing him that other men liked to keep quite near to her.

"Then this evening we'll go in a body to the Pool."

"I shall not go," shuddered Mrs. Marland.

"An hour after sunset!"

"Half an hour. She might be early--and we'll stay half an hour after.

We'll give her a fair show."

"Come," thought Charlie. "I shall get an hour with Agatha."

"You'll come, Charlie?" asked Victor.

"Oh, all right," he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at him?

The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amus.e.m.e.nts. Charlie had to balance Millie Bush.e.l.l, and he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his racquet.

"Poor boy!" said Mrs. Marland.

"Charlie, dear," called Lady Merceron, who had been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bush.e.l.l in the shade, "come and hand the tea. I'm sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!"

"She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs.

Bush.e.l.l.

"Take care of your stom--your health--and your complexion will take care of itself," observed Mr. Vansittart.

"Charlie! Where; is the boy?" called Lady Merceron again.

The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few wretched minutes--hardly enough to say good-by once--before he must hustle--yes, positively hustle--Agatha out of sight. He had heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly after tea.

He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people--a. young man with his arm round a young woman's waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, "by all that's d.a.m.nable!" as Sir Peter says! Charlie said something quite as forcible.

He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha?

Five minutes pa.s.sed in vacillation.

"I'll go and stop her," he said, and began a cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie's voice.

"Well, my dear, let's be off," said Willie.

Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts.

"I'm ready, Willie. It's been beautiful, hasn't it?"

They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank.

"We must make haste," said Willie. "Father'll want his tea."

If they made haste they would be close on his heels. Charlie shrank back behind a willow and let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to his canoe and paddled across--up the steps and into the temple he rushed. She wasn't there! Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. Charlie sat down and, stretching out his legs, stared gloomily at his toes.

Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when a head was put round the Corinthian pilaster of the doorway.

"Poor boy! Am I very late?"

Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurting out joy tempered by uneasiness.

Agatha gathered the difficulty of the position.

"Well," said she, smiling, "I must disappear, and you must go back to your friends."

"No," said Charlie. "I must talk to you."

"But they may come any moment."

"I don't care!"