from earliest boyhood.  He followed the path round the house and thus came in sight of a small outbuilding at the far corner of the yard, on the edge of the bank overlooking and almost overhanging the river—­Dory’s “workshop.”  Its door was open and Arthur could see the whole of the interior.  Dory and a young woman were standing by a bench at the window, were bending over something in which they seemed to be absorbed.  Not until Arthur stepped upon the doorsill did they lift their heads.

“Hello, Artie!” cried Dory, coming forward with extended hand.

Arthur was taking off his hat and bowing to the young woman.  “Hello, Theo,” said he.  “How d’ye do, Estelle?”

Miss Wilmot shook hands with him, a shade constrainedly.  “How are you, Arthur?” she said.

It was in his mouth to ask why she hadn’t been to see Adelaide.  He checked himself just in time.  She and Adelaide were great friends as youngsters at the public school, but the friendship cooled into acquaintance as Adelaide developed fashionable ideas and tastes.  Also, Estelle had been almost a recluse since she was seventeen.  The rest of the Wilmots went into Saint X’s newly developed but flourishing fashionable society.  They had no money to give return entertainments or even to pay their share of the joint, dances and card parties Arthur decided to sheer off.  “I came to ask you to the house for sup—­dinner to-night,” said he.  “It’s lonely—­just mother and Del and me.  Come and cheer us up.  Come along with me now.”

Dory looked confused.  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he all but stammered.

“Of course, I can’t blame you for not caring about coming.”  This a politeness, for Arthur regarded his invitation as an honor.

“Oh, you didn’t understand me,” protested Dory.  “I was thinking of something entirely different.”  A pause during which he seemed to be reflecting.  “I’ll be glad to come,” he finally said.

“You needn’t bother to dress,” continued Arthur.

Dory laughed—­a frank, hearty laugh that showed the perfect white teeth in his wide, humorous-looking mouth.  “Dress!” said he.  “My other suit is, if anything, less presentable than this; and they’re all I’ve got, except the frock—­and I’m miserable in that.”

Arthur felt like apologizing for having thus unwittingly brought out young Hargrave’s poverty.  “You look all right,” said he.

“Thanks,” said Dory dryly, his eyes laughing at Arthur.

And, as a matter of fact, though Arthur had not been sincere, Dory did look “all right.”  It would have been hard for any drapery not to have set well on that strong, lithe figure.  And his face—­especially the eyes—­was so compelling that he would have had to be most elaborately overdressed to distract attention from what he was to what he wore.

On the way to the Rangers, he let Arthur do the talking; and if Arthur had been noticing he would have realized that Dory was not listening, but was busy with his own thoughts.  Also Arthur would have noticed that, as they came round from the stables to the steps at the end of the front veranda, and as Dory caught sight of Adelaide, half-reclining in the hammock and playing with Simeon, his eyes looked as if he had been suddenly brought from the darkness into the light.