“Phyllis, if you are as good a walker as you used to be, won’t you go to Fairlight Glen by the East Hill with me? We could start directly after luncheon, and get to the Glen as soon as the others.”

Mr. Herbert Langridge, who had been persuaded by Colonel Lane to join the picnic, saw a chance in this proposal of an hour or two in which to have the object of his desire to himself, and Colonel Lane had been quite right in supposing that this young man had come to Hastings with the set purpose of getting Phyllis to reconsider a former unfavorable decision.

Phyllis, who knew that things had happened which rendered that former decision final, and seeing no reason at all why she should not listen to pretty compliments for an hour, consented.

Colonel Lane was pleased.

Langridge had a snug post in the War Office, and would some day have a really good pension. It would be a relief to have Phyllis settled. Moreover, Colonel Lane had plans of his own which the marriage of Phyllis would to his mind make easier.

The three were walking on the sea-front near the band-stand, for Colonel Lane had captured Phyllis at the shop of Plummer Roddis, and had carried her off to the “Albany,” where Langridge had been waiting in the covered space outside, where lounge chairs are placed.

“I would much rather walk than ride,” Phyllis affirmed.

“Good,” said Langridge. “We will start early, and not walk too fast in this heat.”

“Luncheon is at one sharp,” put in the Colonel.

“That will give us good time,” Phyllis said.

“And, remember, you both dine with me at the ‘Albany’ to-night,” Langridge reminded her.

“How delightful!” cried Phyllis. “I love dining at hotels.”

Phyllis was certainly disposed to be very agreeable, Langridge thought, and he regarded it as a hopeful sign.

Phyllis, hugging her secret, and feeling very important, as being a married woman—also, it must be owned, struggling against a depression which she must hide—not a very deep depression certainly, for Phyllis had but a shallow nature—but depression, all the same; she craved excitement and entertainment to make her forget it. Langridge promised to be entertaining. He was very much in love, and men in love were always fun.

To Phyllis the situation was most romantic!

Colonel Lane had an old-fashioned house, with a garden, not far from St. Clement’s Church, chosen because it was roomy and cheap; and the garden having a high wall round it made a target possible, and the Colonel could amuse himself with his rifle.

In this garden a year ago Phyllis had refused Langridge’s offer of marriage. (She had refused other men in this garden too.)

Langridge considered the garden unlucky, and meant to try his luck in a fresh place next time. The East Hill was the spot in his mind.

After luncheon Phyllis, looking very bewitching in her picnic garb, set forth with her unfortunate victim gaily enough.

“She isn’t fretting after Arbuthnot,” commented her father, as he watched her go. “It is to be hoped he is not fretting either.”

The sea was a glorious blue. The hot sun was tempered by a playful breeze.

Langridge felt buoyant.

“Do you know, Phyllis, I have done nothing but think of you the whole year,” he told her.

“I was sure you didn’t work much at the War Office,” she flung at him saucily.

He laughed, but he was not altogether pleased. He did not want to lose time in banter. He was very much in earnest.

“We will not talk of the War Office now, Phyllis,” he told her. “I have left the War Office alone for a while.”

“How glad it must be!” she said, with a roguish, sidelong glance at him.

“Would you be glad if I left you alone?” he asked her. “Have you been glad all the year because I did not come near you, or write?”

“I don’t think I thought about it at all,” she said aggravatingly.

“Well, think now. I shall not come back again if you say ‘No’ a second time.”

He was very grave now, and there was something in his voice that suggested smoldering wrath.

“Now you are cross,” she said, pouting. “You have asked me nothing to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Phyllis. You know why I have come to Hastings—why I asked you to walk with me to the Glen, instead of riding with the others. You know that I have come expressly to ask you again if you will be my wife.”

They had come to a standstill and were looking out over the sea. She watched a couple of white-winged yachts, coquetting, as it seemed, like butterflies.

“Are they not lovely?” she asked, pointing at the yachts.

Langridge took the wrist of her extended arm almost roughly.

“Phyllis once and for all, will you marry me?”

“I can’t,” she answered, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “And I am glad I can’t, because you have such a temper!”

“Why can’t you?” he demanded, ignoring the latter part of her remark.

“Because I can’t.”

“That is no answer.”

“I can’t really!” she affirmed.

“Why did you consent to walk with me this afternoon, then?” he asked in an injured tone. “You seemed quite glad to come, and now—”

“Yes, I was glad. I thought you would be amusing, but you are not—no, not one bit. You are simply horrid. If that is your idea of making love—”

“Be nice to me as you were when we were in London, and you shall see if I can make love to your satisfaction.”

“But you mustn’t make love to me.”

“Why mustn’t I? You did not say that once!”

“I say it now.”

He did not believe her. He thought her attitude mere coquetry. She must have known why he wanted to be alone with her, and she had come willingly enough.

“Will you marry me, Phyllis?” he repeated. “You know how I love you.”

“I can’t.”

“Then tell me why.”

She felt cornered.

“Will you promise me never to tell a soul if I do?”

He promised readily enough. He must know her objection before he could overrule it.

She drew her small figure up with an air of great importance.

“I am married,” she said.

“What!” he exclaimed, scarcely believing his ears.

“Yes, I was secretly married to Captain Arbuthnot before he sailed,” she told him. “You see, father would not give his consent—so—we did it. Now are you satisfied?”

Satisfied! He was filled with indignation.

“And knowing that, you allowed me to propose to you,” he said bitterly.

“I could not help your being silly,” she said, shutting her new pink parasol with a snap.

“You made a fool of me, Miss Lane—I beg your pardon!—Mrs. Arbuthnot.”

“Oh! don’t call me that!” she said with a light laugh. “You will forget and do it before people, and we don’t want anyone to know till—till Captain Arbuthnot comes into some money. Mind! you have promised not to tell!”

Herbert Langridge eyed the girl with something like consternation. He, like Mrs. Barrimore, had thought her a frank, innocent child, incapable of anything underhand. He had known she was a flirt—who did not? but he had thought that it was mere childish, light-hearted coquetry; now he thought differently.

He avoided all names now in speaking to her. He also increased the distance between them.

“You have done a very wrong thing,” he told her, conscious that his words were very inadequate. “It will be a great grief to your father to find—as he will have to find sometime—that his only child has deliberately deceived him. He does not deserve this treatment at your hands. He has been mother and father to you, and has devoted himself to you most unselfishly. If he refused to sanction your engagement with Captain Arbuthnot, it was for some good reason.”

“Perhaps you think you were the good reason!” Phyllis exclaimed angrily. “I daresay you and father were in league together! You call me underhand, and I daresay you and father have been scheming in an underhand way to get me to marry you.”

“Your father and I have neither met nor corresponded since last year,” he replied, his face set sternly.

“Well, anyway, you have no right to lecture me! I think you are perfectly—yes, perfectly horrid! and I wish Charlie was here—I do!” (Charlie was Captain Arbuthnot.)

“Well, since he is not here, I advise you to be a little more careful in your treatment of other men,” he reminded her.

She turned on him fiercely. “If you mean I am not to flirt I can tell you I shall. I told Charlie so before he went. He didn’t mind and I shall do it all the more for your lecturing me, so there! I wonder you can be so unkind when you pretend you are in love with me yourself!”

“We will not refer to that again, please. That is done with,” he said coldly.

At this point Phyllis began to cry.

Langridge walked on at her side and ignored the tears.

“I think you might try to comfort me a little,” sobbed Phyllis, “and my husband gone away miles and miles, for years and years most likely.”

“No, thank you! Comforting other men’s wives isn’t in my line,” he told her. “And I wouldn’t make my eyes red, if I were you, to excite comment.”

Phyllis, noting by the unsympathetic tone of her companion’s voice that her tears were unavailing, dried her eyes instantly.

It was quite true, red eyes would excite comment. Moreover (and this was far more important), her appearance would suffer.

“What about to-night?” she asked, after an interval in which they had silently walked on.

“You and your father dine with me at the ‘Albany,’” he answered coldly.

“Now?” she inquired incredulously.

“Why not?” he answered.

It was quite clear to Phyllis now that Langridge had no idea of playing the doleful rejected lover. He would just blot out this afternoon’s episode, and go on as if it had never occurred.

That was precisely what Langridge intended to do.