d Brent. "You're just the sort of
girl I've been wanting to meet--the sort that can see things when
they're right in front of her eyes. Oh, my! that's sure, positive proof
that old Simon----"

"Oh!" broke in Queenie sharply. "Oh, I say!"

Before Brent could look up, he was conscious that a big and bulky shadow
had fallen across the gravelled path at their feet. He lifted his eyes.
There, in his usual raiment of funereal black, his top-hat at the back
of his head, his hands behind him under the ample skirts of his
frock-coat, his broad, fat face heavy with righteous and affectedly
sorrowful indignation, stood Simon Crood. His small, pig-like eyes were
fixed on the papers which the two young people were comparing.

"Hello!" exclaimed Brent. He was quick to see that he and Queenie were
in for a row, probably for a row of a decisive sort which would affect
both their lives, and he purposely threw as much hearty insolence into
his tone as he could summon. "Eavesdropping, eh, Mr. Crood?"

Simon withdrew a hand from the sable folds behind him, and waved it in
lordly fashion.

"I've no words to waste on impudent young fellers as comes from nobody
knows where," he said loftily. "My words is addressed to my niece, as I
see sitting there, a-deceiving of her lawful rellytive and guardian. Go
you home at once, miss!"

"Rot!" exclaimed Brent. "She'll go home when she likes--and not at all,
if she doesn't like! You stick where you are, Queenie! I'm here."

And as if to prove the truth of his words he slipped his right arm round
Queenie's waist, clasped it tightly, and turned a defiant eye on Simon.

"See that?" he said. "Well! that's just where Queenie stops, as long as
ever Queenie likes! Eh, Queenie?"

The girl, reddening as Brent's arm slipped round her, instinctively laid
her free hand on his wrist. And as he appealed to her he felt her
fingers tighten there with a firm, understanding pressure.

"That's all right!" he whispered to her. "We've done it, girlie--it's
for good!" He looked up at Simon, whose mouth was opening with
astonishment. "Queenie's my girl, old bird!" he went on. "She isn't
going anywhere--not anywhere at all--at anybody's bidding, unless she
likes. And why shouldn't she be here?"

It seemed, from the pause that followed, as if Simon would never find
his tongue again. But at last he spoke.

"So this here is what's been going on behind my back, is it, miss?" he
demanded, pointedly ignoring Brent and