“Who’s the lucky beggar?”

“Roger Trenby.”

Sandy’s lips pursed themselves to whistle, but he checked himself in time and no sound escaped.  Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravity that sat strangely on him.

“Old girl, I hope you’ll be very happy—­the happiest woman in the world.”  But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which had nothing whatever to do with his own disappointment.  He had known all along that he had really no chance with her.

“But we’re pals, Nan—­pals, just the same?” he went on.

She slipped her hand into his.

“Pals—­always, Sandy,” she replied.

“Thank you,” he said simply.  “And remember, Nan”—­the boyish voice took on a note of earnestness—­“if you’re ever in need of a pal—–­I’m here, mind.”

Nan was conscious of a sudden sharp pain—­like the stab of a nerve.  The memory of just such another pledge swept over her:  “I think I should always know if you were in trouble—­and I should come.”  Only it had been uttered by a different voice—­the quiet, drawling voice of Peter Mallory.

“Thank you, Sandy dear.  I won’t forget.”

There was a faint weariness in her tones, despite the smile which accompanied them.  Sandy’s nice green eyes surveyed her critically, noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the little tired droop of her lips as the smile faded.

“I tell you what it is,” he said, “you’re fagged out, tramping over here in all this heat.  I’ll ring and tell them to hurry up tea.”

But before he could reach the bell a servant entered, bringing in the tea paraphernalia.  Sandy turned abruptly to the piano, thrumming out a few desultory minor chords which probably gave his perturbed young soul a certain amount of relief, while Nan sat gazing with a half-maternal, half-humorous tenderness at the head of flaming red hair which had earned him his sobriquet.

“Weel, so ye’ve come to see me at last—­or is it Sandy that you’re calling on?”

The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain—­a tall, gaunt woman with iron-grey hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the grey flash of steel.

Nan jumped up at her entrance.

“Oh, Aunt Eliza?  How are you?  I should have been over to see you before, but there always seems to be something or other going on at Mallow.”

“I don’t doubt it—­in yon house of Belial,” retorted Mrs. McBain, presenting a chaste cheek to Nan’s salute.  The young red lips pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile.  Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt’s bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her.  Most sharp-spoken people appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, and Nan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle.

“Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?” enquired Sandy with interest.  “I don’t consider he’s half earned it.”