not be anxious. I have a trusting nature. But when you wire,
remember that the telegraph boy has a good way to walk, and when
telegrams arrive after midnight, it causes a sensation and much
inquiry. Also I cannot help feeling that every one in the village,
as well as at the Green Gate, has read the words I would like to
keep to myself alone. I have a curious love of mystery--isn't
mystery the great charm of all romance?--So to gratify this fancy
of mine, sign your next telegram 'Johnson.' I know you won't mind.

"When we meet again, all, I trust, will be clear and definite
before us. Best love to dear Lady Walmer, and to yourself what I am
sure you will know. Don't be angry with me for not writing oftener.
I find it very difficult to express my thoughts, for alas, I have
no command of language. Not only that, the pens here have one great
fault--they won't write. Otherwise they're quite excellent.... Yes,
your note has given me, as the French say, 'furiously to think.'

"Hoping that all will go well with you, and looking forward, think
me as always,

"Yours, faithfully,
"HARRY BROKE DE FREYNE."

"There! that ought to keep her quiet for a month," he thought as he
posted the letter, and with a sigh of relief turned back towards the
Green Gate.

CHAPTER XXV

A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

By this time Van Buren was entirely in Harry's confidence; that is to
say, Harry had gradually trained him to bear without flinching the
situation as Harry represented it. He believed Harry had a hopeless
romantic affection for Mrs. Romer Wyburn which he was trying to stifle,
and that Miss Walmer being hopelessly in love with _him_, he was doing
his best to marry her, partly, as he candidly admitted, on worldly
grounds.

Van Buren was deeply touched at Harry's trust in him, and was always
trying to keep him up to his good resolutions by pointing out that any
understanding (however Platonic) between the pretty Valentia and the
handsome guest was dishonourable, a breach of hospitality towards Romer,
that silent but admirable host.

Indeed, he repeated to Harry so often and so firmly, "It can't be done;
one can't make love to the wife of a friend," that Harry was driven to
the point of replying that he hardly saw whom else, as a matter of fact,
one _could_ very well make love to; it b