If Lyveden was a Conservative, so was his dog. For the two there was only one walk in all Hertfordshire, and that, after six fair miles, brought them thirsty or wet, as the weather might order, to the shade or shelter of The Leather Bottel. This was, in fact, Anthony's country house. Here for one glorious week the two had shared the same bed. Heaven only knew when such a prolonged visit would be repeated. It had cost two whole pounds, and, do what he would, Anthony could save very little out of his wages. Of his six pounds a month the Dogs' Home took four precious guineas. Then there were railway fares at three shillings a time—twelve shillings a month. Teas, clothes, and a little—a very little—tobacco had to be paid for. It was a tight fit.

With his back to a beech tree, Lyveden thought upon these things. The weather, perhaps, invited Melancholy.

Without the wood a sudden shower was falling down from heaven, drenching anew wet pastures, thinning the mud upon brown lanes, poppling upon the washed highway. Dainty scale-armour of a million leaves protected Anthony. Ere this was penetrated, the fusillade would have stopped.

It was more than a month now since he had seen the lady. At the moment he supposed gloomily that she had gone out of his life. Considering what his life was, it was just as well. (Melancholy smiled to herself, sighed sympathetically, and laid her dark head upon Anthony's shoulder.) His thoughts flew over the blowing country to Eaton Square. The squalor of his bedroom rose up before him. The walls were peeling, and upon one there was a vast brown stain. The floor was bare. The cracked American cloth upon the chest of drawers made this a washstand. The fact that the ensemble had lost a foot made it unsteady. True, some one had placed a Bradshaw under the bereaved corner, but the piece listed heavily. The Bradshaw, by the way, was out of date. In fact, its value as a guide to intending passengers had expired on the thirty-first of October, 1902. That looked as if the chest were an antique. Three of the china knobs, however, which served as handles were unhappily missing. Then there was a flap beneath the window which, when raised, arrested the progress of such smuts as failed to clear it in their descent to the boards. (Melancholy smothered a laugh and laid a wet cheek against her victim's.) The smuts were devilish—the terror by night, the arrow that flieth by day. Anthony believed in fresh air. Also he believed in cleanliness. His twofold faith cost his convenience dear. He had begged a dust-sheet from the housekeeper with which to cover his bed during the day, and regularly, before retiring, shook an ounce of soot out of his window. The bed, by the way, was overhung by the wall, which, for some reason best known to those who built it, deserted the perpendicular for an angle of forty-five, three inches from Anthony's nose. The candlestick had seen merrier days: that there might be no doubt about the matter, it said as much, announcing in so many words that it was "A Present from Margate." …

Scaramouche Melancholy fairly squirmed with delight. Then she turned upon Anthony eyes swimming with tenderness, put up consoling lips…. The entrance of Polichinelle, however, cudgel and all, in the shape of a little white dog, dragging a bough with him, spoiled her game. Harlequin Sun, too, flashed out of hiding—before his cue, really, for the shower was not spent.

Scaramouche fled with a snarl.

At Polichinelle's obvious request, Anthony seized the spare end of the bough, and the two tugged with a will—an agreeable tourney, which was always eventually settled in the lists of Frolic itself. And, whiles they strove, Harlequin danced in and out the trees, with magic touch of bat making the mizzle shimmer and the meadows gleam, and finally, with rare exuberance, breaking his precious colours overhead, to say the masque was over and bid the racing winds hustle away the fretful scenery and clear the stage of sky for his possession.

Master and dog made their way to the inn jubilantly enough.

As he devoured his tea, Lyveden thought again of the girl—more cheerfully. Indeed, he made bold to decide that she was interested in him. That such interest sprang from the loins of Curiosity he admitted readily. Its origin did not matter; the trouble was to keep it alive.

It is obvious that he himself was more than interested. He was, I suppose, in love. At the moment when he had looked upon her for the first time his heart had leaped. Instantly the man knew that he had seen his maid. He had no doubt of it at all, but was quite positive. If a million Archangels had appeared and with one voice told him that he was wrong, he would have shaken his head with a smile. His heart had leaped, and there was an end of it. He just knew. In view of the prospective failure of so many Archangels, it is not surprising that my lady herself, whatever she did, would not be able to erase this impression. Consequently though she had behaved to his face with a manner which it was a Quixotic courtesy to style "disdain," Anthony never wavered. For a second of time he had seen beyond the veil—at least, his heart had—and, now that he knew what it hid, all reinforcement of that veil was out of date. My lady might line it with oak, with brass, with masonry miles thick—and all her labour would be in vain. All the same, Anthony hoped devoutly that she would do nothing of the kind….