“YOUR friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together.

“He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!”

Her companion then, during a moment's silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?”

“No—not long.”

“Nor seen him often?”

“Only once—till now.”

“Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven't cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of this, Lady Grace—the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn't let yourself—between us all—be worked to death.”

“Oh, such days as this—!” She made light enough of her burden.

“They don't come often to me at least, Lady Grace! I hadn't grasped in advance the scale of your feast,” he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone—!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence.

She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.”

“Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don't perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately—these three months—to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last”—and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump—“well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.”

She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you know me enough?”