to a positive approach. There was a fine
English awkwardness in this--he felt that too as he sauntered vaguely and
obliquely across the lawn, taking an independent line. Fortunately there
was an equally fine English directness in the way one of the gentlemen
presently rose and made as if to "stalk" him, though with an air of
conciliation and reassurance. To this demonstration Paul Overt instantly
responded, even if the gentleman were not his host. He was tall,
straight and elderly and had, like the great house itself, a pink smiling
face, and into the bargain a white moustache. Our young man met him
halfway while he laughed and said: "Er--Lady Watermouth told us you were
coming; she asked me just to look after you." Paul Overt thanked him,
liking him on the spot, and turned round with him to walk toward the
others. "They've all gone to church--all except us," the stranger
continued as they went; "we're just sitting here--it's so jolly." Overt
pronounced it jolly indeed: it was such a lovely place. He mentioned
that he was having the charming impression for the first time.

"Ah you've not been here before?" said his companion. "It's a nice
little place--not much to _do_, you know". Overt wondered what he wanted
to "do"--he felt that he himself was doing so much. By the time they
came to where the others sat he had recognised his initiator for a
military man and--such was the turn of Overt's imagination--had found him
thus still more sympathetic. He would naturally have a need for action,
for deeds at variance with the pacific pastoral scene. He was evidently
so good-natured, however, that he accepted the inglorious hour for what
it was worth. Paul Overt shared it with him and with his companions for
the next twenty minutes; the latter looked at him and he looked at them
without knowing much who they were, while the talk went on without much
telling him even what it meant. It seemed indeed to mean nothing in
particular; it wandered, with casual pointless pauses and short
terrestrial flights, amid names of persons and places--names which, for
our friend, had no great power of evocation. It was all sociable and
slow, as was right and natural of a warm Sunday morning.

His first attention was given to the question, privately considered, of
whether one of the two younger men would be Henry St. George. He knew
many of his distinguished contemporaries by their photographs, but had
never, as happened, seen a po