“I must say that is a cheerful suggestion,” answered Arthur.  “She is an awful old tub, and, I daresay, ran before the gale for Vigo, that is all.”

“Let us hope so,” said Mildred, doubtfully.  “What is it, John?”

“The housemaid wishes to speak to you, please, ma’am.”

“Very good, I will come.”

It has been hinted that Agatha Terry was looking absent on the morning in question.  There was a reason for it.  For some time past there had been growing up in the bosom of this excellent lady a consciousness that things were not altogether as they should be.  Miss Terry was not clever, indeed it may be said that she was dense, but still she could not but see that there was something odd in the relations between Arthur and Mildred.  For instance, it struck her as unusual that two persons who were not married, nor even, so far as she knew, engaged, should habitually call each other “dear,” and even sometimes “dearest.”

But on the previous evening, when engaged in a search after that species of beetle that loves the night, she chanced to come across the pair standing together on the museum verandah, and, to her horror, she saw, even in that light, that Mildred’s arm was round Arthur’s neck, and her head was resting on his heart.  Standing aghast, she saw more; for presently Mildred raised her hand, and, drawing Arthur’s head down to the level of her own, kissed him upon the face.

There was no doubt about it, it was a most deliberate kiss—­a kiss without any extenuating circumstances.  He was not even going away, and Agatha could only come to one conclusion, that they were either going to be married—­or “they ought to be.”

She sought no more beetles that evening, but on the following morning, when Mildred departed to see the housemaid, leaving Arthur and herself together on the verandah, she thought it was her “duty” to seek a little information.

“Arthur,” she said, with a beating heart, “I want to ask you something.  Are you engaged to Mildred?”

He hesitated, and then answered.

“No, I suppose not, Miss Terry.”

“Nor married to her?”

“No; why do you ask?”

“Because I think you ought to be.”

“I quite agree with you.  I suppose that you have noticed something?”

“Yes, I have.  I saw her kissing you, Arthur.”

He blushed like a girl.

“Oh, Arthur,” she went on, bursting into tears, “don’t let this sort of thing go on, or poor Mildred will lose her reputation; and you must know what a dreadful thing that is for any woman.  Why don’t you marry her?”

“Because she refused to marry me.”

“And yet—­and yet she kisses you—­like that!” added Miss Terry, as the peculiar fervour of the embrace in question came back to her recollection.  “Ah, I don’t know what to think.”

“Best not think about it at all, Miss Terry.  It won’t bear reflection.”