ly, hardly daring to believe in his good fortune, he left her,
and she wandered aimlessly over the grass towards the carp-pond. "Nasty,
slimy water," she said aloud, "you have lost me!"

Joyselle had stopped playing, and through the open windows only a very
subdued murmur of voices came. Even Bridge has its uses. The night was
perfect, and the serene moon sailed high under a scrap of cloud like a
wing. The old house, most beautiful, looked, among its surrounding
trees, secluded and protected.

"It looks like a home," thought the girl bitterly.

And then young Joyselle joined her.

"May I come? Shall I bother you?"

"You may come; and you never bother me."

His youthful face was pleasant to look at; the dominating expression of
it was one of sunny sweetness. Would Tommy grow to be as nice a young
man?

Tommy, that old person, was, she knew, perched astride a chair near the
Bridge table, picking up, with uncanny shrewdness, all sorts of tips
about the great game, as he picked up knowledge about everything that
came his way. Up to this, his varied stock of information had not hurt
him. Later--who could tell?

"Where is Tommy?" she asked miserably.

"Watching the Bridge. Why are you unhappy?" His dark eyes were bent
imploringly on hers. "I--I can't bear to see you suffer."

"Oh, _mon Dieu, je ne souffre pas_! That is saying far too much. I----"

"Was it Pontefract?"

"No, oh, no. Ponty and I are very good friends," she returned absently.
And then she remembered. She was going to marry Ponty!

"Let's walk to the sun-dial and see what time it is by the moon," she
suggested abruptly.

But at the sun-dial he insisted further, always gentle and apologetic,
but always bent on having an answer to his question.

"You are not going to marry him?" he asked.

"Who told you I was?"

"No one."

"Oh!"

"Well, _are_ you?"

His head fairly swam as he looked at her in the full moonlight. "What
made you think of it?" she returned.

"Tommy--told me not to interrupt you--and him."

"Well--it's true."

He was young, and French, and she was beautiful and he was desperately
in love with her. Kneeling suddenly on the damp grass, he buried his
face in his arms as they lay limply across the sun-dial. There was a
long pause. He did not sob, he was quite still, but every line of him
proclaimed unspeakable agony.

"Poor boy," she said gently.

Then he rose. "I am not a boy," he declared, his chin twitching but his
voi