begun to doubt, and had kept on doubting
(horribly) up to Saturday morning. All Friday she had been bothering
Susie. Did Susie think there was any one in town whom he was in a hurry to
get back to? Did Susie think such a man as Mr. Gatty could think twice
about a girl like her? Did Susie think he only thought her a forward
little minx? Or did she think he really was beginning to care? And Susie
said: "You goose! How do I know, if you don't? He hasn't said anything to
me."

And on Saturday morning Aggie all but knew. For that day he asked
permission to take her for a drive, having borrowed a trap for the
purpose.

They drove up to a northern slope of the Cotswolds, by a road that took
them past High Farm; and there they found John Hurst superintending his
sheep-shearing. Aggie, regardless of his feelings, insisted on getting out
of the trap and looking on. John talked all the time to the shepherd,
while Arthur talked to Aggie, and Aggie, cruel little Aggie, made remarks
about the hard-heartedness of shearers.

Arthur ("that bald-faced young Cockney snob," as John called him) was
depressed by the dominating presence of his rival and his visible
efficiency. He looked long and thoughtfully at the sheep-shearing.

"Boni pastoris est," he observed, "tondere oves, non deglubere."

Aggie shook her pretty head, as much as to say Latin was beyond her; and
he was kind enough to translate. "It is the part of a good shepherd to
shear, not flay, the sheep."

"Is that from Virgil?" she asked, looking up into his face with a smile of
unstained intellectual innocence.

A terrific struggle arose in young Arthur's breast. If he said it was from
Virgil (it was a thousand to one against her knowing), he might leap into
her love at one high bound. If he said he didn't know where it came from
before it got into his Latin exercise, he would be exactly where he was
before, which, he reflected, dismally, was nowhere. Whereas, that fellow
Hurst was forever on the spot.

On the other hand, where would he be if--if--supposing that she ever found
him out?

A thousand to one against it. He who aims high must take high risks. He
took them.

"Yes," he said, "it's Virgil." And he added, to clinch the matter, "From
the 'Georgics.'"

The light in her believing eyes told him how inspired he had been.

The more he thought of it the more likely it seemed. A flash of
reminiscence from his school-days visited him; he remembered that Virgil
did