‘He a child of nature, with his belladonna!’

’To all that a child of nature wanted to forget.  The machine emitted a serpent of tape, news of Surrey v.  Yorkshire, and something about Kaffirs, and Macrae was enormously pleased, for such are the simple joys of the millionaire, really a child of nature.  Some of them keep automatic hydraulic organs and beastly machines that sing.  Now Macrae is not a man of that sort, and he has only one motor up here, and only uses that for practical purposes to bring luggage and supplies, but the wireless thing is the apple of his eye.  And Blake sneered.’

‘He is usually very civil indeed, almost grovelling, to the father,’ said Lady Bude.  ’But I tell you for your benefit, Mr. Merton, that he has no chance with the daughter.  I know it for certain.  He only amuses her.  Now here, you are clever.’

Merton bowed.

’Clever, or you would not have diverted me from my question with all that science.  You are not ill looking.’

‘Spare my blushes,’ said Merton; adding, ’Lady Bude, if you must be answered, you are clever enough to have found me out.’

‘That needed less acuteness than you suppose,’ said the lady.

‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ said Merton.  ’You know how utterly hopeless it is.’

‘There I don’t agree with you,’ said Lady Bude.

Merton blushed.  ‘If you are right,’ he said, ’then I have no business to be here.  What am I in the eyes of a man like Mr. Macrae?  An adventurer, that is what he would think me.  I did think that I had done nothing, said nothing, looked nothing, but having the chance—­well, I could not keep away from her.  It is not honourable.  I must go. . . .  I love her.’

Merton turned away and gazed at the sunset without seeing it.

Lady Bude put forth her hand and laid it on his.  ’Has this gone on long?’ she asked.

‘Rather an old story,’ said Merton.  ’I am a fool.  That is the chief reason why I was praying for rain.  She fishes, very keen on it.  I would have been on the loch or the river with her.  Blake does not fish, and hates getting wet.’

’You might have more of her company, if you would not torment the poet so.  The green-eyed monster, jealousy, is on your back.’

Merton groaned.  ‘I bar the fellow, anyhow,’ he said.  ’But, in any case, now that I know you have found me out, I must be going.  If only she were as poor as I am!’

‘You can’t go to-morrow, to-morrow is Sunday,’ said Lady Bude.  ’Oh, I am sorry for you.  Can’t we think of something?  Cannot you find an opening?  Do something great!  Get her upset on the loch, and save her from drowning!  Mr. Macrae dotes on her; he would be grateful.’

‘Yes, I might take the pin out of the bottom of the boat,’ said Merton.  ’It is an idea!  But she swims at least as well as I do.  Besides—­hardly sportsmanlike.’