"You got my telegram, then?"

"Telegram? No. What telegram?"

"The one I sent, saying I must see you. Yesterday."

"No telegram came."

"Then it's got stuck, because there's so many racing messages going. I sent one."

"Then you must have been a little fool."

"That I ain't," said the girl, petulantly.

"I told you not to write or send."

"But I was obliged to, I tell you; and as you didn't come to me in my trouble, I jumped on my bike and I've come to you."

"But what for--what trouble?" cried the boy, stamping impatiently.

"Father's got hold of your letters and found out everything, dear. You ought to have told 'em by now."

"But--but--but," stammered Syd, "where--what--what--oh! why did you come?"

"That's what I keep telling you, dear. Dad's half mad, and he's coming over to see your aunt and uncle."

"Coming here?"

"Yes, Syd love. He'd have come before if it hadn't been for the race."

"You must go back at once and stop him from coming here."

"Stop him? Oh, Syd dear, you don't know father."

"Don't know him? Oh, don't I? Why, if he came here--oh, dear, dear, what a horrid mess! Well, I don't know what to do."

"Hadn't I better stop here?"

"Hadn't I better go and jump in the river? I wish you'd stopped at the Orphoean."

"But I couldn't, Syd; they're rebuilding it."

"Coming down here to this quiet place and making eyes at me in church till I didn't know what I was about."

"For shame, sir! It was you made eyes at me. I couldn't help it."

"Yes, you could. You'd got a church at Tilborough, and might have gone there."

"Oh, what a shame, Syd! You know I did, and you went on writing letters to me, saying your aunt kept you at home, and that you couldn't eat or sleep for longing to see my pretty face."

"I didn't."

"You did, sir!" cried the girl, stamping her foot.

"I swear I didn't."

"Oh, you wicked wretch! Why, I've got six letters with it in."

"What! You've kept my letters? I told you to burn 'em all."

"Well, I haven't. I've got 'em all tied up with red ribbon, the colour of my heart's blood, all but those father found."

"Yes, that's it. If you'd done as I told you the old man would never have known."

"Oh, wouldn't he, Syd? Now say, if you dare, that you didn't write to me to come over so that you might see my darling sweet face again."

"Oh, I'm a gentleman, I am. I'm not going to tell any lies. If I said so, I must have been half cracked."

"So you were--with love. I've got four letters that say so when you wanted me to go to London and get married."

"Yes, I must have been mad, Molly. It's been like a nightmare to me ever since. I wish I'd never seen you."

"Oh, oh, oh!" began the pretty little bicyclist, beginning to sob. "Has it come to this so soon?"

"Don't--don't--don't cry. The servants'll hear you."

"I--I--I can't help it, Syd. Oh, dear, dear! You've broke my heart."

"No, I haven't, darling. There, there. Kisses'll mend the place.

There--and there--and there."

"But you're sorry you met me, and you don't love me a bit. If I'd known what getting married meant you wouldn't have caught me running off on the sly."

"Don't--don't cry, I tell you," cried the boy, pa.s.sionately. "I didn't mean it. You know that I love you awfully, only a man can't help saying things when he's in such a mess. You don't know what my aunt is."

"And you don't know what my father is."

"Oh, don't I? An old ruffian," added the boy to himself.

"Your aunt's only a woman, and she got married herself."

"Oh, yes, that's true; but she isn't like other women. She didn't marry for love."

"And I don't wonder at it," said the girl, dismally. "Love ain't, as father says, all beer and skittles."

"Don't cry, I tell you," said Syd, angrily, as the girl rubbed her eyes, boy-fashion, with the cuffs of her jacket, after a vain attempt to find her handkerchief.

"Well, ain't I wiping away the tears, and got no--here, lend us yours, Syd."