"He is not"—angrily.
"Well, my dear girl, when one sees a fellow lifting first one leg and then the other, and craning his neck over a gate until one fears for the vertebrae of it, one naturally does accuse him of impatience."
"He? Who?" Agatha started, and sprang to her feet and looked round.
"Why Dillwyn. I'm certain he feels as if he had been waiting a century. I'll swear that he is growing impatient. He,"—with a gentle wave of his arm towards the gateway—"has been dancing a pas seul there for the last ten minutes!"
Agatha looked at him for a moment only. Then she turned aside.
"I think you might have told me!" said she, her voice quick with anger.
"I might—I might," said Mr. Browne, with truly noble acquiescence. "But you said, dear Agatha, that he was not to be here for ten minutes, and I thought it might be bad for you to see him too soon."
She was not listening to him, however. She had gone towards the gate.
Dicky with a resigned smile lit a cigarette, and started for "fresh fields and pastures new."