Rose and Mark behaved in the classic manner of surprised lovers. They released each other, Rose turned white and Mark red, and neither of them uttered a word.

The Colonel said, “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me,” and made his daughter a little bow.

Rose, with a sort of agitated spontaneity, ran to him, linked her hands behind his head and cried, “It had to happen sometime, darling, didn’t it?”

Mark said, “Sir, I want her to marry me.”

“But I won’t,” Rose said, “I won’t unless you can be happy about it. I’ve told him.”

The Colonel, with great gentleness, freed himself and then put an arm round his daughter.

“Where have you come from, Mark?” he asked.

“From Chyning. It’s my day at the hospital.”

“Yes, I see.” The Colonel looked from his daughter to her lover and thought how ardent and vulnerable they seemed. “Sit down, both of you,” he said. “I’ve got to think what I’m going to say to you. Sit down.”

They obeyed him with an air of bewilderment.

“When you go back to Nunspardon, Mark,” he said, “you will find your father very much upset. That is because of a talk I’ve just had with him. I’m at liberty to repeat the substance of that talk to you, but I feel some hesitation in doing so. I think he should be allowed to break it to you himself.”

“Break it to me?”

“It is not good news. You will find him entirely opposed to any thought of your marriage with Rose.”

“I can’t believe it,” Mark said.

“You will, however. You may even find that you yourself (forgive me, Rose, my love, but it may be so) feel quite differently about…” the Colonel smiled faintly… “about contracting an alliance with a Cartarette.”

“But, my poorest Daddy,” Rose ejaculated, clinging to a note of irony, “what have you been up to?”

“The very devil and all, I’m afraid, my poppet,” her father rejoined.

“Well, whatever it may be,” Mark said and stood up, “I can assure you that blue murder wouldn’t make me change my mind about Rose.”

“O,” the Colonel rejoined mildly, “this is not blue murder.”

“Good.” Mark turned to Rose. “Don’t be fussed, darling,” he said. “I’ll go home and sort it out.”

“By all means, go home,” the Colonel agreed, “and try.”

He took Mark by the arm and led him to the door.

“You won’t feel very friendly towards me tomorrow, Mark,” he said. “Will you try to believe that the action I’ve been compelled to take is one that I detest taking?”

“Compelled?” Mark repeated. “Yes, well… yes, of course.” He stuck out the Lacklander jaw and knitted the Lacklander brows. “Look here, sir,” he said, “if my father welcomes our engagement… and I can’t conceive of his doing anything else… will you have any objection? I’d better tell you now that no objection on either side will make the smallest difference.”

“In that case,” the Colonel said, “your question is academic. And now I’ll leave you to have a word with Rose before you go home.” He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Mark.”

When the Colonel had gone, Mark turned to Rose and took her hands in his. “But how ridiculous,” he said. “How in the world could these old boys cook up anything that would upset us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how they could, but it’s serious. He’s terribly worried, poor darling.”

“Well,” Mark said, “it’s no good attempting a diagnosis before we’ve heard the history. I’ll go home, see what’s happened and ring you up in about fifteen minutes. The all-important, utterly bewildering and Heaven-sent joy is that you love me, Rose. Nothing,” Mark continued with an air of coining a brand-new phrase, “nothing can alter that. Au revoir, darling.”

He kissed Rose in a business-like manner and was gone.

She sat still for a time hugging to herself the knowledge of their feeling for each other. What had happened to all her scruples about leaving her father? She didn’t even feel properly upset by her father’s extraordinary behaviour, and when she realized this circumstance, she realized the extent of her exthrallment. She stood in the French window of the drawing-room and looked across the valley to Nunspardon. It was impossible to be anxious… her whole being ached with happiness. It was now and for the first time that Rose understood the completeness of love.

Time went by without her taking thought for it. The gong sounded for dinner and at the same moment the telephone rang. She flew to it.

“Rose,” Mark said. “Say at once that you love me. At once.”

“I love you.”

“And on your most sacred word of honour that you’ll marry me. Say it, Rose. Promise it. Solemnly promise.”

“I solemnly promise.”

“Good,” said Mark. “I’ll come back at nine.”

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

“Yes. It’s damn’ ticklish. Bless you, darling. Till nine.”

“Till nine,” Rose said and in a state of enthrallment went in to dinner.

By eight o’clock the evening depression had begun to settle over Commander Syce. At about five o’clock, when the sun was over the yard-arm, he had a brandy and soda. This raised his spirits. With its successors, up to the third or fourth, they rose still further. During this period he saw himself taking a job and making a howling success of it. From that emotional eminence he fell away with each succeeding dram, and it was during his decline that he usually took to archery. It had been in such a state of almost suicidal depression that he had suddenly shot an arrow over his coppice into Mr. Danberry-Phinn’s bottom meadow and slain the mother of Thomasina Twitchett.

To-night the onset of depression was more than usually severe. Perhaps his encounter with the Colonel, whom he liked, gave point to his own loneliness. Moreover, his married couple were on their annual holiday and he had not been bothered to do anything about an evening meal. He found his arrow and limped back to the archery lawn. He no longer wanted to shoot.

His gammy leg ached, but he thought he’d take a turn up the drive.

When he arrived at the top, it was to discover Nurse Kettle seated by the roadside in gloomy contemplation of her bicycle, which stood upside down on its saddle and handlebars.

“Hullo, Commander,” said Nurse Kettle, “I’ve got a puncture.”

“Evening. Really? Bore for you,” Syce shot out at her.

“I can’t make up me great mind to push her the three miles to Chyning, so I’m going to have a shot at running repairs. Pumping’s no good,” said Nurse Kettle.

She had opened a tool kit and was looking dubiously at its contents. Syce hung off and on and watched her make a pass with a lever at her tyre.

“Not like that,” he shouted when he could no longer endure it. “Great grief, you’ll get nowhere that fashion.”

“I believe you.”

“And in any case you’ll want a bucket of water to find the puncture.” She looked helplessly at him. “Here!” he mumbled. “Give it here.”

He righted the bicycle and with a further, completely inaudible remark began to wheel it down his drive. Nurse Kettle gathered up her tool kit and followed. A look strangely compounded of compassion and amusement had settled on her face.

Commander Syce wheeled the bicycle into a gardener’s shed and without the slightest attempt at any further conversation set about the removal of the tyre. Nurse Kettle hitched herself up on a bench and watched him. Presently she began to talk.

“I am obliged to you. I’ve had a bit of a day. Epidemic in the village, odd cases all over the place, and then this happens. There! Aren’t you neat-fingered. I looked in at Nunspardon this evening,” she continued. “Lady Lacklander’s got a ‘toe,’ and Dr. Mark arranged for me to do the fomentations.”

Commander Syce made an inarticulate noise.

“If you ask me, the new baronet’s feeling his responsibilities. Came in just as I was leaving. Very bad colour and jumpy,” Nurse Kettle gossiped cosily. She swung her short legs and interrupted herself from time to time to admire Syce’s handiwork. “Pity!” she thought. “Shaky hands. Alcoholic skin. Nice chap, too. Pity!”