“I don’t expect the sort of house I’m after would be much in your line. You’re a town bird, aren’t you?”

She wasn’t. She only lived in London because of her loneliness. She wanted “his sort of house,” with dogs, and horses, and a garden to tend.

He went to look at Airedale pups, and took her with him. He was not familiar with the breed and Helen, in impotent wrath, watched him select a hopeless specimen and listen guilelessly to the breeder’s eulogies. Helen held herself in check, but her impulse was to say a few illuminating words. Instead, she murmured:

“It seems rather a lot to give. Perhaps you’ll find one less expensive.”

She couldn’t bear to see Maurice be swindled. Luckily he decided to think the matter over before purchasing the pup.

She had been with the Derings for three weeks when Maurice heard of a house for sale. It seemed to be just what he desired, and as it was possible to motor there and back in a day, they arranged to go over to look at it, lunching on the way, and arriving home in time for dinner. Everything was planned when Anne, worried over the slow progress of the matchmaking, developed an intangible ailment, and declared that she did not feel “up to it.” Don, blindly obeying orders, refused to go without her, and it seemed as though the expedition must fall through. But Anne insisted that Maurice and Helen should go, and after a great deal of argument Helen agreed.

MAURICE took Helen in her own car, wrapped her in many rugs, although the day was very mild. They lunched at a little inn on the way, and arrived at the house about four in the afternoon. It was all that was most beautiful, a long, low Tudor building set in big grounds, with a rose garden, a pleasaunce, a small farm, and tennis courts. They wandered all over it, enchanted, and could hardly bear to tear themselves away. But it was growing late and they had had no tea. They reluctantly went in search of a confectioner, and wasted fully an hour there discussing the house. Then Maurice saw that it was already six o'clock, and sprang up.

“Oh, Helen, this is too bad of me! I’m afraid we shan’t get back till nine, and Anne said eight o’clock dinner. I’m so sorry!”

“It doesn’t matter a bit,” she replied. “I’ve so enjoyed it. We’d better be going now, though.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be very tired,” he said worriedly. “Do you mind having dinner on the way?”

“Not a bit; I should love it,” she said truthfully.

They drove back through the fast gathering dusk, and presently the darkness came, and Maurice, looking at the clock before him, under its little light, said:

“It’s nearly eight. I think we’ll stop at the first decent inn we see. Are you quite warm?”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when there were sundry strange sounds from the car’s interior, and they stopped in the middle of the deserted road. After a moment Maurice got out.