"He must wait anyway," said he sadly.
"We must both wait."
"Oh, not both!"—with a sidelong glance towards the silent figure half seen through the branches. "It is you who are keeping him waiting."
"You are wrong, indeed, Dicky," said the girl earnestly. "We shall wait together. I don't mind that."
"He might, however; especially as you are not together." A slight movement in the hawthorn bush that stood beside the gate emphasised this remark.
"That makes no difference," said Agatha sweetly. "We are content to wait apart."
"Yet Dillwyn doesn't strike me as being a modern Job," said Mr. Browne, who could see Dillwyn marching up and down before the gate in a distinctly impatient style. He had not yet recognised Dicky, and he knew Agatha had by agreement come there to meet him, and was probably doing all in her power to get rid of her troublesome companion. There was a "Will he never go away?" sort of air about him that unhappily amused Dicky.
"I told you you did not understand him—did not sympathise with him," said Agatha reproachfully.
"I do! I do!" Dicky's voice grew tearful. "Waiting for the beloved one is melancholy work; it demands all one's sympathies. I can at this moment,"—here Dicky grew almost tragic—"enter into all his feelings. I feel with him. It may seem painful to you, Agatha, but I assure you I can actually see him as he waits."
"How kind, how good you are, Dicky!"