We have all seen John Charteris’s portraits, and most of us have read his books—­or at least, the volume entitled In Old Lichfield, which caused the Lichfield Courier-Herald to apostrophize its author as a “Child of Genius! whose ardent soul has sounded the mysteries of life, whose inner vision sweeps over ever widening fields of thought, and whose chiseled phrases continue patriotically to perpetuate the beauty of Lichfield’s past.”  But for present purposes it is sufficient to say that this jewelsmith of words was slight and dark and hook-nosed, and that his hair was thin, and that he was not ill-favored.  It may be of interest to his admirers—­a growing cult—­to add that his reason for wearing a mustache in a period of clean-shaven faces was that, without it, his mouth was not pleasant to look upon.

“Heigho!” Patricia said, at length, with a little laugh; “it is very strange that both of our encumbrances should arrive on the same day!”

“It is unfortunate,” Mr. Charteris admitted, lazily; “but the blessed state of matrimony is liable to these mishaps.  Let us be thankful that my wife’s whim to visit her aunt has given us, at least, two perfect, golden weeks.  Husbands are like bad pennies; and wives resemble the cat whose adventures have been commemorated by one of our really popular poets.  They always come back.”

Patricia communed with herself, and to Charteris seemed, as she sat in the chequered sunlight, far more desirable than a married woman has any right to be.

“I wish—­” she began, slowly.  “Oh, but, you know, it was positively criminal negligence not to have included a dozen fairies among my sponsors.”

“I too have desiderated this sensible precaution,” said Charteris, and laughed his utter comprehension.  “But, after all,” he said, and snapped his fingers gaily, “we still have twenty-four hours, Patricia!  Let us forget the crudities of life, and say foolish things to each other.  For I am pastorally inclined this morning, Patricia; I wish to lie at your feet and pipe amorous ditties upon an oaten reed.  Have you such an article about you, Patricia?”

He drew a key-ring from his pocket, and pondered over it.

“Or would you prefer that I whistle into the opening of this door-key, to the effect that we must gather our rose-buds while we may, for Time is still a-flying, fa-la, and that a drear old age, not to mention our spouses, will soon descend upon us, fa-la-di-leero?  A door-key is not Arcadian, Patricia, but it makes a very creditable noise.”

“Don’t be foolish, mon ami!” she protested, with an indulgent smile.  “I am unhappy.”

“Unhappy that I have chanced to fall in love with you, Patricia?  It is an accident which might befall any really intelligent person.”

She shrugged her shoulders, ruefully.

“I have done wrong to let you talk to me as you have done of late.  I—­oh, Jack, I am afraid!”