relationship, you know. I ain't strong on the Peerage."

"A sort of connection!" There was that in more senses than the one
Calder had been told of by Uncle Van. There was a connection that poor
Charlie thought Heaven itself had tied on those summer evenings by the
Pool, which to strengthen and confirm forever he had sallied from his
home, like a knight in search of his mistress the world over in olden
days. And he found her--such as this girl must be! Stay! He did not
know all yet. Perhaps she had been forced into a bond she hated. He
knew that happened. Did not stories tell of it, and moralists declaim
against it? This man--this creature, Calder Wentworth--was buying her
with his money, forcing himself on her, brutally capturing her. Of
course! How could he have doubted her? Charlie dropped Calder's arm as
though it had been made of red-hot iron.

"Hullo!" exclaimed that worthy fellow, unconscious of offence.

Charlie stopped short. "I can't come," he said. "I--I've remembered an
engagement;" and without more he turned away and shot out of sight
round the nearest corner.

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Calder Wentworth, and, with a puzzled frown,
he joined his other friends.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MORAL OF IT

Left alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank into the nearest chair.

"A very handsome young man, isn't he?" asked the good lady, pushing a
chair back into its place. "He'll be an acquisition, I think."

Agatha made no answer, and Mrs. Blunt, glancing at her, found her
devouring the carpet with a stony stare.

"What on earth's the matter, child?"

"I'm the wretchedest wickedest girl alive," declared Agatha.

"Good gracious!"

"Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the summer-house when Mr. Merceron
went there?"

"My dear, are you ill? You jump about so from subject to subject."

"It's all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There was a girl there."

"Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will be boys; and I'm sure there
was no harm."

"No harm! Oh!"

"Agatha, are you crazy?" demanded Mrs. Blunt, with an access of
sternness.

"Could I fancy," pursued Agatha, in despairing playfulness mimicking
Uncle Van's manner, "how Miss Bushell looked, and how Victor looked,
and how everybody looked? Could I fancy it? Why, I was there!"

"There! Where?"

"Why, in that wretched little temple. I was the girl, Mrs. Blunt.
I--I--I was the milkmaid, as Mr. Sutton says. I was the country wench!
Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!"