"She hadn't known me two days; perhaps two days aren't long enough to find me out."

"Feminine intuition...." I began.

"Feminine intuition's a woman's power of jumping to wrong conclusions quicker than men. Unless you want to get yourself into trouble, you'd better not march into Sylvia's presence with a _New Militant_ in your hand."

I thanked him for the reminder, and bequeathed the offending sheet to the Martyrs' Memorial. The heavy type of the headline, "Where is Miss Rawnsley?" reminded me of our earlier conversation.

"I shan't be sorry to get rid of my charges," I remarked. "They're a responsibility in these troublous times."

"Sylvia's in no danger," he answered with great confidence.

"I'm not so sure."

"She's absolutely safe."

"How do you know?"

He looked at me doubtfully, and the confidence died out of his eyes.

"I don't. It's--just an opinion."

"Even if you're right, there's still Gladys," I said.

"I'd forgotten her."

"She's a fair mark."

"I suppose so."

"Though not as good as Sylvia."

"I assure you Sylvia's in no danger."

"But how do you know?" I repeated.

"I tell you; it's only an opinion."

"But you don't express any opinion about Gladys."

"How could I?"

"How can you about Sylvia?"

He hesitated, flushed, opened his lips and shut them again in his old tantalising way.

"I don't know," he answered as we entered the Randolph, and walked to the end of the hall where the three girls were awaiting us.

Robin had provided an imposing flotilla for our accommodation. His own punt was reserved for Cynthia, himself, and the luncheon-baskets; a mysterious reconciliation had placed Garton's at the disposal of Philip, Gladys, and myself, while Sylvia and the Seraph were stowed away in a Canadian canoe, detached by act of sheer piracy from the adjoining Univ. barge. We took the old course through Mesopotamia and over the Rollers, mooring for luncheon half a mile above the Cherwell Hotel. Hunger and a sense of duty secured my presence for that meal and tea; in the interval I retired for a siesta. Distance, I find, lends enchantment to a chaperon.

It was in my absence that Philip asked Gladys to marry him. On my reappearance at tea-time, Robin shouted the news across a not inconsiderable section of Oxfordshire. I affected the usual surprise, warned Philip that he must await my brother's approval, and shook hands with him avuncularly. Then I watched the orgy of kissing that seems inseparable from announcements of this kind. A mathematician would work out the possible combinations in two minutes, but his calculation would, as ever, be upset by the intrusion of the personal equation, for Robin kissed Gladys not once, but many times, less with a view to welcoming her as a sister than from a reasonable belief that such ill-timed assiduity would exasperate her elder brother.

In time it occurred to some one to make tea, and at six o'clock the flotilla started home. Robin ostentatiously transferred me from Philip's punt to his own, and with equal ostentation announced his intention of starting last so as to round up the laggards. The Canadian canoe shot gracefully ahead, and was soon lost to view; a fast stream was running, and the boat needed little assistance from the paddle. I have no doubt that in the late afternoon sun, and with an accompaniment of rippling water gently lapping the sides of the boat, time passed all too quickly. Fragments of conversation were disinterred for my benefit in the course of the following weeks, to set me wondering anew what sympathetic nimbus I must wear that girls and boys like Sylvia and the Seraph should unlock their hearts for my inspection.

I gather that Sylvia called for the verdict on the success of their expedition to Oxford, and that the Seraph found for her, but with reluctant, qualified judgment.

"You're not sorry you came?" she asked. "Well, what's lacking? I'm responsible for bringing you here; I want everything to be quite perfect."

"Everything _is_ perfect, Sylvia."

She shook her head.

"_Some_thing's wrong. You're moody and silent and troubled, just like you were the first time we met. D'you remember that night? You looked as if you thought I was going to bite you. I don't bite, Seraph. Tell me what's the matter, there's still one night more; I want to make you glad you came."

"You can't make me gladder than I am. But you can't find roses without thorns. I wish we weren't all going back to-morrow."

"It's only to London."

"I know, but it'll all be different."

"But why?"

"I don't know, but it _will_ be. These three days wouldn't have been so glorious if I hadn't remembered every moment of the time that they were--just three days."

Shipping his paddle, he lay back in the boat and plunged his arms up to the elbow in the cool, reedy water. Sylvia roused him with a challenge.

"Four days would have bored you?"

"Have you ever met the man who _was_ bored by four days of your company?"

"Don't you sometimes fancy you know me better than most?"

"I've known you since Whitsun."

"You've known me since...."

She stopped abruptly. The Seraph lifted a wet hand, and watched the water trickling in zigzag rivulets up his arm.

"Shall I finish it for you?" he asked.

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You've known me since the day I was born."

"Why do you think I was going to say that?"

"You were, weren't you?"

"I stopped in the middle."