"It's Freshfield," she gasped in her ear, "and young Mr. Burmester, and somebody I don't know. Oh, I wish he was alone! He won't dare to speak to us. Look at his nice curly dark hair! Isn't he scrumptious?"
The young agent, with an expression of acute discomfort, had raised his hat to the phalanx of great girls. Mr. Burmester was looking bewildered at the sudden appearance of what looked like a boarding-school out for a walk emerging from the heather. He also pulled off his cap, and said, in the deprecating tones of a very young man:
"Oh, I say! I'm afraid we startled you." With which he made as though to pass on.
Millie had not moved from her seat on the Trush; it was not her way to be startled. She had taken off her hat, and sat there bare-headed in the sunset, her heart full of quiet, like Wordsworth's nun—too steeped in Nature's calm to notice this intrusion.
The third member of the shooting party had paused to examine the lock of his gun. He was a short, rather thick-set man, with very blue, clear eyes, which redeemed his face from the common-place—which saw beauty in all Nature, and seemed to exact truth from men. When he raised these eyes from the gun, he saw Millie seated there on the Trush, and he gave a glad laugh, not at all surprised, but full of satisfaction.
"Hallo, Melicent! There you are!" he cried out heartily.
Melicent bounded up, looked around, pushed away Gwen, who stood before her, and leaping into the heather, flew to her friend. She gave a little cry of gladness.
"Mr. Helston! How did you get here? Is Mrs. Helston here too?"
"She's not actually here in sight, but she's not far off," he replied, putting his arm round her. "You'll see her very soon. You must present me to your cousins. Lance, I've found a friend."
Lancelot Burmester, in secret terror of what he called "flappers," came up awkwardly. He was a clever-looking fellow, fair, with an incisive profile, a pale face and pince-nez. He advanced from one side, as Tommy, anxious and heated, hurried up on the other.