"Suppose it rains?"

"There is The Happy Heart."

"But your promise still holds," she reminded him.

"If Miss Blair prefers the inn," said Lionel with polite determination, "we go there. That, of course, will cancel the promise, and you will not see me again. In case she does," he added more softly, "I had better say good-by now. Thank you for many kindnesses."

"There is nothing to thank me for," she replied, looking confused.

"There is. And I wish you would give me one thing more for which to thank you," said Lionel, taking her hand. Her eyes dropped. She blushed, but did not free herself.

"And that is----?" she murmured.

"It would be a great happiness to see you and your sister reconciled."

She wrenched her hand away.

"Do not ask me that again," she replied, seeming both disappointed and pettish. "I have given you my answer already. Now, please, will you be kind enough to tell the prisoner I wish to see him. He can stop work and change. I will wait for him in my sitting-room up-stairs."

Lionel went in search of Tony. He found the latter pocketing his pipe, preparatory to a fresh attack upon the mound of earth. "Miss Arkwright says you can stop," said Lionel genially. "You may go and get clean; she wishes to see you."

"What about my work?" objected Tony. "You know, old friend--forgive me, but I seem to have known you for years--I am making quite a good job of that bed. _Exegi monumentum aere perennius!_ What? That's about all I have left of a thousand-pound education. What I mean to say is that future generations may come and look at my flower bed as being the beau-ideal--the standard--the Super-bed, and so forth. Honestly, I'm beginning to be quite proud of the little chap--it's a most promising child. I say, between old schoolmates and that sort of jolly palaver, what does she want me for?"

"Haven't a notion, friend of my youth," said Lionel sympathetically.

Knowing nothing of Tony, he felt nevertheless an attraction and a mutual bond. "You'd better do as she tells you."

The bed-builder arose.

"Of course. I say, do you think she'll let me stay here for a bit longer? What I mean is, has she any intention of carting me at once?"

"I haven't a notion."

"You see ... here's the bed ... some one must finish it. I should hate to think of another artist putting in his oar. The bed, in short, worries me."

"Ask her to take you on as gardener," suggested Lionel, smiling at the absurd creature.

"I wonder...." Tony moved off with dragging dissatisfied steps. After progressing a few yards he turned. There was hesitation in his voice and manner.

"I--I say, oh, companion of my infancy, I wonder if you'd mind me asking you a question? Of course, we've not been introduced and all that, and I hope you'll not regard it as a liberty, faux pas, double entendre, or what-not. But do you mind telling me if you're engaged to her?"

"Lord, no!" said Lionel, mightily surprised. "Not the least intention of trying. If that's all your trouble, go in and win. And good luck to you!"

"I say," observed Tony with a most engaging smile, "you're a blind a.s.s, old yoke fellow of my youth; but you're no end of a sportsman. One more question--I promise that I'm quite a decent chap, though appearances are against me--is she engaged to any one else?"

"Not that I know of."

"The planet Jupiter is in conjunction with Saturn, or words to that effect. Whatever the stars are, I seem to be in luck. Oh, of course she mayn't look at me, I know. We must give her time to appreciate my many excellences--not dream of rushing things. But she has made my few days'

stay so pleasant, that common grat.i.tude----"

"No: don't spoil it!" said Lionel, reading something beneath Tony's idle chatter; "you don't mean that." Tony looked at him and changed his tone.

"What I do mean," he said sincerely, "is that she's a perfectly top-hole creature. She's taught me a few things--not excluding work, in which she must share the credit with others--during the last few days. I want to extend the lessons. Well, I think a little soap and water might be rather a promising start. Where am I to see her? Up-stairs?"

He strolled off whistling cheerfully, bearing Lionel's good wishes. The latter was in a good humor with all the world to-day: he felt like giving a sovereign to every child, and a five-pound note to every grown-up. "If ever I make a hit with my plays," he thought, "I'll give the vicar a peal of bells and Mrs. Peters--what on earth could I give to Mrs. Peters? I suppose a calf-bound set of her husband's sermons would be the most acceptable souvenir, unless she's human enough to enjoy diamonds. Yes, I think it might be diamonds." He smiled at his happy visions, and walked back to the hammock-chair to wait till Beatrice should appear.

He did not know, of course, whether she was coming by rail or motor, and therefore did not trouble to look out possible trains. He was quite content to wait patiently for her in that delightful garden, knowing now that he loved her, and hoping she might love, or learn to love him. But though he was content and patient, he could not distract himself, or spend the lagging hours with books or newspapers. He tried, indeed, but failed. After reading a few lines he found his attention wandering: he could not compel his brain to follow the paltry adventures of Mudie's heroines, or the stupendous feats chronicled in the daily press.

Instead, his thoughts flew back to that lucky rescue in the Strand, to the wondrous hours with Beatrice in the theater or in the Bloomsbury flat, to the mad adventure of the magnanimous churchwarden, to the thousand incidents of the past adventurous month. He could not read, but tobacco was no hindrance to the brave play of memory and imagination, and with a luxurious smile he lighted a pipe and drowsed. Presently, between the nicotian clouds, he thought, "I must make Winifred be friends. What scheme shall I try? Winifred is a dear, too, though she has a woman's resentment. What can I do to make them all happy--to make every one happy? Winifred ... Beatrice...."

The besotted lover, overcome with his soul's reaction, the June sun and a crowded morning, fell asleep....

He was roused by a touch upon the shoulder. He awoke and blinked lazily toward heaven. Beside him stood an angel in a lavender linen frock, and a lavender hat with a daring touch of black, carrying a lavender parasol with a white handle. It was Beatrice at last!

CHAPTER XXV

THE G.o.d OF THE MACHINE

Lionel stared dumbly for a moment, not completely realizing what had happened. Then he jumped up with a wry smile. "You must think me a poor watcher," he said, inwardly cursing his sleepiness. "I was so busy waiting and thinking of you that I suppose I must have--I imagine I have--that is, I fell asleep. Did you come by train?"

"Yes," she said. It would be idle to say "in the well-remembered tones."

Her voice was identical with Winifred's: her appearance, gesture, carriage--all were Winifred's; but the telepathy of love told Lionel the myriad differences between the sisters, differences impalpable, impossible to define or even hint at, but differences that were real, if psychological. "I came by the four-thirty, and walked from the station."

"Then--good heavens! what time is it?"

"Six o'clock," she said with a smile. "How long have you been asleep?"

"It must be at least three hours," said Lionel in rueful amazement.

"Fancy wasting three hours of a day like this in sleep! But don't let us waste any more. Tell me all about yourself, your plans, everything. You are well?" he added anxiously, though the question was needless.

"Perfectly. And you?"

"Quite fit, thanks." And a silence fell between them. It seemed odd that there should be a silence, for so much had happened since they last met.

Lionel had been living in a penny novelette, and her fate could not have been much more fortunate. Yet now they seemed to have nothing to say beyond the commonplaces of friendly acquaintanceship. It was Lionel who broke the silence.

"You must let me say that...." He stopped. He could not honestly say he was sorry for the death of Lukos, so he changed the form of his statement: "--that I am sorry for your trouble. You know it already, but I should like to tell it you.... I suppose it must be true?"

"Thank you," Beatrice replied evenly. "Yes, I expect it is true; but, as I wrote to you, I am going to make sure."

"Is that wise?"

"Perhaps not, but I mean to go."

Lionel did not attempt to argue with her, to reason or persuade. The finality of tone and his knowledge of the woman made him give up at once any thought of such a useless effort. "But I go with her," he resolved, "either as husband or servant. And if she won't take me, I'll go on my own if I have to steal a ride under the train!"

"Did you call at the house?" he asked.