“No.  That is the very thing I liked.  Good night!”

“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.  “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”

“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum.  Then it was: 

“Good night, Mrs Bossier!  Good night, Harry!  Good night, Archie!  Good night, Mr Goodchum!  Good-bye, Miss Craddock!  Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn!  So long, Jay-Jay!  Good-bye, Mrs Bell!  Goodbye, Miss Goodjay!  Good night, Miss Melvyn!  Good night, Mr Goodjay!  Good night, Mrs Bossier!  Good-bye, Miss Melvyn!  Good night all!”

I sat long by my writing-table that night—­thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love.  It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—­it appeared they had feeling and affections after all.

I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—­so susceptible to bruises—­many marks, and black.

It had been a very happy day for me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth

The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December.  There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road.  In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me.  But no, he was not that style of man.  After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking.

My hair tumbled down.  I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage.  He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”

“Men are queer creatures,” I returned.  “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls.  It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache.  They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”

I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time.

He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up.