meeting with Ferdinand, when getting out of the train she would see him popping about on the horizon with the love-light sparkling in his eyes and words of devotion trembling on his lips. The poor girl never doubted for an instant that he would unleash his pent-up emotions inside the first five minutes, and her only worry was lest he should give an embarrassing publicity to the sacred scene by falling on his knees on the station platform.
"Many changes there have been since ninety-four," said the octogenarian. "None of these motor-cars then, tearing about and killing"
"Well, here I am at last," she cried, gaily.
"Hullo!" said Ferdinand, with a twisted smile.
The girl looked at him, chilled. How could she know that his peculiar manner was due entirely to the severe attack of cold feet resultant upon his meeting with George Parsloe that morning? The interpretation which she placed upon it was that he was not glad to see her. If he had behaved like this before, she would of course have put it down to ingrowing goofery, but now she had his written statements to prove that for the last ten days his golf had been one long series of triumphs.
"I got your letters," she said, persevering bravely.
"I thought you would," said Ferdinand, absently.
"You seem to have been doing wonders."
"Yes."
There was a silence.
"Have a nice journey?" said Ferdinand.
"Very," said Barbara.
She spoke coldly, for she was madder than a wet hen. She saw it all now. In the ten days since they had parted, his love, she realized, had waned. Some other girl met in the romantic surroundings of this picturesque resort, had supplanted her in his affections. She knew how quickly Cupid gets off the mark at a summer hotel, and for an instant she blamed herself for ever having been so ivory-skulled as to let him come to this place alone. Then regret was swallowed up in wrath, and she became so glacial that Ferdinand, who had been on the point of telling her the secret of his gloom, retired into his shell and conversation during the drive to the hotel never soared above a certain level. Ferdinand said the sunshine was nice and Barbara said yes it was nice, and Ferdinand said it looked pretty on the water and Barbara said yes it did look pretty on the water, and Ferdinand said he hoped it was not going to rain and Barbara said yes it would be a pity if it rained. And then there was another lengthy silence.
"How is my uncle?" asked Barbara at last.
I omitted to mention that the individual to whom I have referred as the Cat-Stoker was Barbara's mother's brother and her host at Marvis Bay.
"Your uncle?"
"His name is Tuttle. Have you met him?"
"Oh, yes. I've seen a good deal of him. He has got a friend staying with him," said Ferdinand, his mind returning to the matter nearest his heart. "A fellow named Parsloe."
"Oh, is George Parsloe here? How jolly!"
"Do you know him?" barked Ferdinand, hollowly. He would not have supposed that anything could have added to his existing depression, but he was conscious now of having slipped a few rungs farther down the ladder of gloom. There had been a horribly joyful ring in her voice. Ah, well, he reflected
