“That’s where I met you once,” he said.  “Do you remember?  You were coming out of the door as I went in.”

“You seem to have been always meeting me.”

“Always meeting you.  And then—–­always missing you.  Just when I expected most to find you.”

“If we go much farther in this direction,” said Gwenda, “we shall meet Papa.”

“Well—­I suppose some day I shall have to meet him.  Do you realise that I’ve never met him yet?”

“Haven’t you?”

“No.  Always I’ve been on the point of meeting him, and always some malignant fate has interfered.”

She smiled.  He loved her smile.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I was only wondering whether the fate was really so malignant.”

“You mean that if he met me he’d dislike me?”

“He always has disliked anybody we like.  You see, he’s a very funny father.”

“All fathers,” said Rowcliffe, “are more or less funny.”

She laughed.  Her laughter enchanted him.

“Yes.  But my father doesn’t mean to be as funny as he is.”

“I see.  He wouldn’t really mean to dislike me.  Then, perhaps, if I regularly laid myself out for it, by years of tender and untiring devotion I might win him over?”

She laughed again; she laughed as youth laughs, for the pure joy of laughter.  She looked on her father as a persistent, delightful jest.  He adored her laughter.

It proved how strong and sane she was—­if she could take him like that.  Rowcliffe had seen women made bitter, made morbid, driven into lunatic asylums by fathers who were as funny as Mr. Cartaret.

“You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t,” she said.  “He’s funnier than you’ve any idea of.”

“Is he ever ill?”

“Never.”

“That of course makes it difficult.”

“Except colds in his head.  But he wouldn’t have you for a cold in his head.  He wouldn’t have you for anything if he could help it.”

“Well—­perhaps—­if he’s as funny as all that, we’d better turn.”

They turned.

They were walking so fast now that they couldn’t talk.

Presently they slackened and he spoke.

“I say, shall you ever get away from this place?”

“Never, I think.”

“Do you never want to get away?”

“No.  Never.  You see, I love it.”

“I know you do.”  He said it savagely, as if he were jealous of the place.

“So do you,” she answered.

“If I didn’t I suppose I should have to.”

“Yes, it’s better, if you’ve got to live in it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

After that they were silent for a long time.  She was wondering what he did mean.

When they reached the Vicarage gate he sheered off the path and held out his hand.

“Oh—­aren’t you coming in for tea?” she said.

“Thanks.  No.  It’s a little late.  I don’t think I want any.”