“Of course!” said Saltash kindly.  “Look here, my dear!  Don’t for heaven’s sake feel you’ve got to ask my permission for everything you do!  Treat the place and everyone in it as your own!”

“Thank you,” she said again.  “Then, Charles, if you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll send for my dog as well.”

“What!  Christopher Columbus?  You’ve got him with you, have you?” Saltash’s smile lighted his dark face.  “Lucky animal!  Have him over by all means!  I shall be delighted to see him.”

“You are very kind,” she said, and turned with a hint of embarrassment to Dick.  “Mr. Fielding says that you will want to be getting back and there is no need to wait.  Will you take the little car back to the Court?”

“Certainly,” Dick said.  “Would you care to give me a list of the things you want the maid to bring?”

“How kind of you!” she said, and hesitated a moment, looking at him.  “But I think I needn’t trouble you.  Cox is very sensible.  I can make her understand on the telephone.”

He looked back at her, standing very straight.  “In that case—­I will go,” he said.  “Good-bye!”

She held out her hand to him.  “I—­shall see you again,” she said, and there was almost a touch of pleading in her voice.

His fingers closed and held.  “Yes,” he said, and smiled into her eyes with the words—­a smile in which determination and tenderness strangely mingled.  “You will certainly see me again.”

And with that he was gone, striding between the massed flowers without looking back.

“Exit Romeo!” murmured Saltash.  “Enter—­Kismet!”

But Juliet had already turned away.

CHAPTER V

THE DRIVING FORCE

That Saturday night concert at High Shale entailed a greater effort on Dick’s part than any that had preceded it.  He forced himself to make it a success, but when it was over he was conscious of an overwhelming weariness that weighed him down like a physical burden.

He said good-night to the men, and prepared to depart with a feeling that he was nearing the end of his endurance.  It was not soothing to nerves already on edge to be waylaid by Ashcott and made the unwilling recipient of gloomy forebodings.

“We shan’t hold ’em much longer,” the manager said.  “They’re getting badly out of hand.  There’s talk of sending a deputation to Lord Wilchester or—­failing him—­Ivor Yardley, the K.C. chap who is in with him in this show.”

“Yardley!” Dick uttered the name sharply.

“Yes, ever met him?  He took over a directorship when he got engaged to Lord Wilchester’s sister—­Lady Joanna Farringmore.  They’re rather pinning their hopes on him, it seems.  Do you know him at all?”

“I’ve met him—­once,” Dick said.  “Went to him for advice—­on a matter of business.”

“Any good?” asked Ashcott.

“Oh yes, shrewd enough.  Hardest-headed man at the Bar, I believe.  I didn’t know he was a director of this show.  They won’t get much out of him.”