George and Becky had finished their tea. There had been some rather
delectable sweet biscuit which Kemp kept on hand for such occasions, and
there was a small round box of glace nuts, which George had insisted
that Becky must keep. The box was of blue silk set off by gold lace and
small pink roses.

"Blue is your color," George had said as he presented it.

"That's what Randy says."

"You are always talking of Randy."

She looked her surprise. "I've always known him."

"Is he in love with you?"

She set down the box and looked at him. "Randy is only a boy. I am very
fond of him. But we aren't either of us--silly."

She brought the last sentence out with such scorn that George had a
moment of startled amaze.

Then, recovering, he said with a smile, "Is being in love silly?"

"I think it's rather sacred----"

The word threw him back upon himself. Love was, you understand, to
George, a game. And here was Becky acting as if it were a ritual.

Yet the novelty of her point of view made her seem more than ever
adorable. In his heart he found himself saying, "Oh, you lovely, lovely
little thing."

But he did not say it aloud. Indeed he, quite unaccountably, found
himself unable to say anything, and while he hesitated, there charged up
the west hill a panting dog with flapping ears. At the arched opening of
the Pavilion she paused and wagged a tentative question.

"It's Nellie Custis----" Becky rose and ran towards her. "Where's your
master, darling? _Randy_----"

In response to her call came an eerie cry--the old war cry of the Indian
chiefs. Then young Paine came running up. "Becky! Here? There's going to
be a storm. You better get home----"

He stopped short. Dalton was standing by the folding table.

"Hello, Paine," he said, with ease. "We're playing 'Babes in the Wood.'"

"You seem very comfortable," Randy was as stiff as a wooden tobacco
sign.

"We are," Becky said. "Mr. Dalton waved his wand like the Arabian
nights----"

"My man did it," said Dalton; "he's down there in the car."

Randy felt a sense of surging rage. The Pavilion was his. It was old and
vine-covered, and hallowed by a thousand memories. And here was Dalton
trespassing with his tables and chairs and his Canton teapot. What right
had George Dalton to bring a Canton teapot on another man's acres?

Becky was pouring tea for him. "Two lumps, Randy?"

"I don't want any tea," he said ungraciously. His eyes were appraising
the flame of