d been admitted, a welcomed guest, to
this little old-world oasis, bounded by high red-brick walls, where she
dwelt and ruled. Quiet, sunny, happy hours he had spent in the hush of
the old garden, strolling up and down the long narrow velvet turf,
beneath the spreading trees, from the green postern gate in the
right-hand corner of the bottom wall, to the flight of stone steps
leading up to the garden-door of the little white house.

The Boy knew, by now, exactly what he wanted. He wanted to marry
Christobel Charteris.

He must have been rather a brave boy. He looked very youthful and slim
as he lay back in his chair, watching the stately proportions of the
woman on whom he had set his young heart; very slight and boyish, in
his silver-grey suit, with lavender tie, and buttonhole of violas. The
Boy was very particular about his ties and buttonholes. They always
matched. This afternoon, for the first time, he had arrived without a
buttonhole. In the surprise and pleasure of his unexpected appearance,
the Aunt had moved quickly down the sunlit lawn to meet and greet him.

Mollie had departed, early that morning. Her final words at the
railway station, as her impish little face smiled farewell from the
window of her compartment, had been: "Mind, Auntie dear, no mistake
about Guy Chelsea! He's a charming fellow; and thank you ever so much
for giving me such a good time with him. But you can report to Papa,
that Guy Chelsea, _and_ his beautiful properties, _and_ his prospective
peerage, _and_ his fifty thousand a year, _and_ his motor-cars, _and_
his flying-machines, are absolutely powerless to tempt me away from my
allegiance to Phil. Beside, it so happens, Guy himself is altogether
in love with SOME ONE ELSE."

The train having begun to move at the words "You can report to Papa,"
Mollie finished the remainder of the sentence in a screaming crescendo,
holding on to her hat with one hand, and waving a tiny lace
pocket-handkerchief, emphatically, with the other. Even then, the Aunt
lost most of the sentence, and disbelieved the rest. The atmosphere of
love had been so unmistakable during those two weeks; the superabundant
overflow had even reached herself more than once, with an almost
startling thrill of emotion.

The Boy had been so full of vivid, glowing _joie-de-vivre_, radiating
fun and gaiety around him.

In their sets of tennis, played on her own court across the lane at the
bottom of the garden, whe