aid Cyril.

"Isn't it?" she answered.

"Jolly day, too."

"Yes."

"Wasn't it lucky I was able to get away?"

"Rather."

"It was a fearful rush."

"It must have been."

"Jove, it is hot!"

There was a pause.

"Darling!"

"Dear boy!"

"May I smoke a cigarette, dear?"

"Yes, do."

He lit a cigarette, and then put his arm round her waist.

"Don't, Cyril."

"Why not?" he asked, removing it.

"Oh, I don't know. Henry or some one might see."

"What's Henry?"

"A sort of gardener boy--the boy whose sort of sister makes kind of
blouses in the village."

"Oh, does he matter?"

Cyril was wondering if he could ask for a drink.

When they were left entirely alone, on purpose to be free, he always
felt rather shy and awkward, and intensely thirsty.

Daphne began to think about what time it was, and about her train
back--subjects that never occurred to her when she was alone with Mrs.
Foster.

"I'm afraid I shall soon have to be going," she said.

"Oh, I say! What, the moment I've arrived?"

He tried not to feel a little relieved. He wondered why he hadn't more
to say to her. He had been desperate to get consent to their engagement,
and was always extremely anxious and counting the minutes till they met,
and when they were together, alone after much elaborate scheming, he
felt a little embarrassed, and, like his fiancee, was surprised he
wasn't happier.

"I say, Daphne!"

"Yes, dear."

"You do look sweet."

"Do you really think so?"

"Simply ripping! I say!"

"Yes."

"Won't it be jolly when we're married?"

"Yes; lovely."

"It will be all the time just like this, you see--only nicer ... I say!
Isn't it hot?"

They sat holding hands, he looking at her admiringly, she feeling mildly
pleased that such a dear, handsome boy should be so fond of her. In the
minds of both was another sensation, which they did not recognise, or,
at all events, would not admit to themselves. They both, especially
Cyril, counted the minutes to these _tete-a-tetes_, and immediately
afterwards looked back on them with regret, feeling they had missed
something. They wrote to each other frequent, short, but intensely
affectionate letters about the happiness these interviews had given
them. Yet, while they actually lasted, both Cyril and Daphne, had they
only known it, were really rather bored. The next day, or the same
evening, Cyril would write to her:--

"My own Darling,--How jolly it was having you a littl