"Well, if your generosity's greater than your pride, you can apologise to him: if your pride's greater than your generosity, waive the apology and sink the past. I've a fair idea what the quarrel's about,"

I added.

"I see." Sylvia brought flippancy into her tone when speaking of something too serious to be treated seriously: the flippancy was now ebbing away, and leaving her implacable and unyielding. "Is there any reason why I should do anything at all?" she asked.

I stretched out my hand to bid her good-bye. "I've not done it well,"

I admitted, "but the advice was not bad, and the spirit was really good."

"Admirable," she answered ironically. "I should be glad of such a champion. Have you given _him_ any advice?"

"What d'you suggest?"

Sylvia knelt on the edge of a sofa, clasping her hands lazily behind her head.

"I ride in the Park every morning," she began. "I ride alone because I prefer to be alone. My father objects, and Phil doesn't like it, because they don't think it's safe. I think I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, so I disregard their objection. Your friend also rides in the Park every morning, sometimes with a rather conspicuous woman and the last few mornings alone. I don't know whether it's design, I don't know whether it's chance--but he rides nearer me than I like."

I waited for her to point the moral, mentioning incidentally that England was a free country and the Park was open to the public.

"He may have the whole of it," she answered, "except just that little piece where I happen to be riding at any given moment."

"I'm afraid you can't keep him out of even that."

Her eyes broke into sudden blaze. "I can flog him out of it as I'd flog any man who followed me when I forbade him."

There was nothing more to be said, but I said it as soon as I dared.

"We're friends, Sylvia?" She nodded. "And I can say anything I please to you?"

"No one can do that."

"Anything in reason? Well, it's this--you're coming a most awful cropper one of these fine days, my imperious little queen."

"You think so?"

"I do. You're half woman, and half man, and half angel, and three-quarters devil."

Sylvia had been counting the attributes on her fingers.

"When I was at school," she interrupted, "they taught me it took only two halves to make a whole."

"I've learnt a lot since I left school. One thing is that you're the equivalent of any three ordinary women. Now I really am going. Queen Elizabeth, your most humble servant."

Her hand went again to the bell, but I was ready with a better suggestion.

"It would be a graceful act if you offered to show me downstairs," I said. "It'll be horribly lonely going down two great long flights all by myself."

She took my arm, led me down to the hall, and presented me with my hat and stick.

"Are you walking?" she asked as we reached the door. "If not, you may have my private taxi. Look at him." She pointed to an olive-green car at the corner of the Square. "I believe I must have made a conquest, he's always there, and whenever I'm in a hurry I can depend on him. I think he must refuse to carry any one else. It's an honour."

I ran through my loose change, and lit upon a half-sovereign, which I held conspicuously between thumb and first finger.

"He'll carry me," I said.

"I doubt it."

"Will you bet?"

"Oh, of course, if you offer to buy the car!"

"You haven't the courage of your convictions," I said severely.

"Good-bye, Queen Elizabeth."

It was well for me she declined the wager. I walked to the corner and hailed the taxi; but the driver shook his head.

"Engaged, sir," he said.

"Your flag's up," I pointed out.

"My mistake, sir."

Nonchalantly pulling down the flag, he retired behind a copy of the _Evening News_. I was sorry, because his voice was that of an educated man, and I am always interested in people who have seen better days; they remind me of my brother before he was made a judge. I had only caught a glimpse of dark eyes, a sallow complexion and bushy black beard and moustache. England is so preponderatingly clean-shaven that a beard always arouses my suspicions. If the wearer be not a priest of the Orthodox Church, I like to think of him as a Russian nihilist.

After dinner the following night I mentioned to the Seraph that I had run across Sylvia, and hinted that his propinquity to her in the Park each day was not altogether welcome.

"So she told me this morning," he said.

"I thought you wouldn't mind my handing on an impression for what it was worth," I added with vague floundering.

"Oh, not at all. I shall go there just the same, though."

"You'll annoy her."

He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "That's as may be. This is not the time for her to be running any unnecessary risks."

"You can hardly kidnap a grown woman--on horseback--in broad daylight--in a public park," I protested.

"The place is practically deserted at the hour she rides."

The following day the Seraph rode as usual. Sylvia entered the Park at her accustomed time; saw him, cut him, passed him. For a while they cantered in the same direction, separated by a hundred and fifty yards; then the Seraph gradually reduced the distance between their horses. His quick eyes had marked a group of men moving furtively through a clump of trees to the side of the road. Their character and intentions will never be known, for Sylvia abruptly drew rein--throwing her horse on his haunches as she did so--then she turned in her own length, and awaited her gratuitous escort. The Seraph had to swerve to avoid a cannon. As he passed, her hand flashed up and cut him across the face with a switch; an instinctive pull at the reins gave his horse a momentary check and enabled her to deal a second cut back-handed across his shoulders. Then both turned and faced each other.

Sylvia sat with white face and blazing eyes.

"It was a switch to-day, and it will be a crop to-morrow," she told him. "It seems you have to be taught that when I say a thing I mean it."

The Seraph bowed and rode away without answering. Physically as well as metaphorically he was thin-skinned, and the switch had drawn blood.

Three weeks passed before his face lost the last trace of Sylvia's castigation. A purple wale first blackened and then turned yellowish green. When I saw him later in the day, his face was swollen, and the mark stretched diagonally from cheekbone to chin, crossing and cutting the lips on its way. He gave me the story quietly and without rancour.

"I can't go again after this," he concluded, "but somebody ought to.