"You are very, very wicked," she told him gravely.

Sir Maurice kissed her.

"So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited."

Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat.

Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.

Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair.

"Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week." He glanced anxiously out of the window. "I hope the rain holds off."

"Oh, it will," replied his father placidly.

"I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you—er—did you ride into the village?"

"I did."

"And—and did you go to—Sharley House?"

"Ay."

"Are they—did they accept?" Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern.

"They did. I met that fellow Bancroft."

"Oh!" said Philip. "Where?"

"In the rose-garden," yawned Sir Maurice.

The whip fell to the ground.

"What? In the rose-garden? Whose rose-garden?"

"At Sharley House, of course."

"Where—was—What was he doing there?"

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