r handsome
sister has asked me to hunt in Essex. Don't like hunting, but I do
like her--and there's a great deal waiting to be done at Martley. I
don't know. We'll talk about it to-morrow." Then he asked her, "Would
she come and look at Martley?" It seemed she had half promised.

She said, "Oh, yes, of course." Nothing of that kind seemed very
important. But James here looked down at her, which made it different.
"We might go at Whitsuntide," he said.

She looked deeply up--deeply into him, so to speak. "Very well, we
will. If you'll come."

"Oh, he'll come," Urquhart said; and James, "I should like it." So
that was settled. Heavens, how she wished these people would go. She
could see that Francis Lingen wanted to be asked to stay to dine, but
she didn't mean to have that. So when Urquhart held out his hand with
a blunt "Good night to you," she let hers hover about Francis as if
his was waiting for it--which it wasn't, but had to be. "Oh, good
night," said the embarrassed exquisite, and forgot to be tender.

James picked up the evening paper and was flickering his eye over the
leading articles, like a searchlight. Lucy, for her part, hovered
quick-footed in his neighbourhood. This was her hour of triumph, and
she played with it. She peeped at the paper over his shoulder till he
said, "Please," and moved it. Her fingers itched to touch his hair,
but very prudently refrained. She was too restless to settle to
anything, and too happy to wish it. If she had been a singing-bird she
would have trilled to the piano; but she had not a note of music. The
dressing-gong gave her direction. There was plenty to be done. "The
gong! I'm going to make myself smart, James. Quite smart. Are you
coming up?"

James had the paper open in the middle. "Eh? Oh, there's lots of
time--run away. I'm rather busy."

"You're not a bit busy. But I'll go." And she went with hardly a
perceptible hang-back at the door. Upstairs she rejected her usual
choice with a curled lip. "No, no, too stuffy." "Oh, Smithers, I
couldn't. It makes me look a hundred." No doubt she was absurd; but
she had been starved. Such a thing as this had not happened to her
since her days of betrothal, and then but seldom. When she had
satisfied herself she had a panic. Suppose he said, "Comic Opera!"

He said nothing at all. He was in a thoughtful mood, and talked mostly
of Urquhart's proposal for Whitsuntide. "I believe it's rather
remarkable. Quite a place to be seen.