“Why, we aren’t engaged,—­yet,—­are we?” asked Sylvie, with bewitching surprise.

“I don’t know,” said Rodney, his old, merry, mischievous twinkle coming in the corners of his eyes, as he flashed them up at her.  “I think we’ve got the refusal of each other!”

“Well.  We’ll keep it so.  We’ll wait.  You shall not break any promise for me,” said Sylvie, still sweetly obtuse.

“I’m satisfied with that way of looking at it,” said Rodney, laughing out.  “Unless—­you mean to be as cunning about everything else, Sylvie.  In that case, I don’t know; I’m afraid you’d be dangerous.”

“I wonder if I’m always going to be dangerous to you,” said Sylvie, gravely, taking up the word.  “I always get you into an accident.”

“When we take matters quietly, the way they were meant to go, we shall leave off being hustled, I suppose,” said Rodney, just as gravely.  “There has certainly been intent in the way we have been—­thrown together!”

“I don’t believe you ought to say such things, Rodney,—­yet!  You are talking just as if”—­

“We weren’t waiting.  O, yes!  I’m glad you invented that little temporary arrangement.  But it’s a difficult one to carry out.  I shall be gladder when my father comes.  I’m tired of being Casabianca.  I don’t see how we can talk at all.  Mayn’t I tell you about a little house there is at Arlesbury, with a square porch and a three-windowed room over it, where anybody could sit and sew—­among plants and things—­and see all up and down the road, to and from the mills?  A little brown house, with turf up to the door-stone, and only a hundred dollars a year?  Mayn’t I tell you how much I’ve saved up, and how I like being a real working man with a salary, just as you liked being one of the Other Girls?”

“Yes; you may tell me that; that last,” said Sylvie, softly.  “You may tell me anything you like about yourself.”

“Then I must tell you that I never should have been good for anything if it hadn’t been for you.”

“O, dear!” said Sylvie.  “I don’t see how we can talk.  It keeps coming back again.  I’ve had all those plants kept safe that you sent me, Rodney,” she began, briskly, upon a fresh tack.

“Those very ivies?  Ah, the little three-windowed room!”

“Rodney!  I didn’t think you were so unprincipled!” said Sylvie, getting up.  “I wouldn’t have come down here, if I had known there was a promise!  I shall certainly help you keep it.  I shall go away.”

She turned round, and met a gentleman coming down along the slope of the smooth, broad rock.

“Mr. Sherrett!—­Rodney!”

Rodney sprang to his feet.

“My boy!  How are you?”

“Father!  When—­how—­did you come?”

“I came to Tillington by the late train last night, and have just driven over.  I went to Arlesbury yesterday.”

“But the steamer!  She wasn’t due till Sunday.  You sailed the ninth?”