’The first night I ever came down.  You rode past the drawing-room window in the dark singing it—­“And sweeter woman—­“’

’I thought the house was empty then.  Your aunt always let us use that short cut.  Ha-hadn’t we better get this out into the passage?  It’ll all have to come out anyhow.  You take the other side.’  They began to lift a heavyish table.  Their words came jerkily between gasps and their faces were as white as—­a newly washed and very hungry pig.

‘Look out!’ Midmore shouted.  His legs were whirled from under him, as the table, grunting madly, careened and knocked the girl out of sight.

The wild boar of Asia could not have cut down a couple more scientifically, but this little pig lacked his ancestor’s nerve and fled shrieking over their bodies.

‘Are you hurt, darling?’ was Midmore’s first word, and ’No—­I’m only winded—­dear,’ was Miss Sperrit’s, as he lifted her out of her corner, her hat over one eye and her right cheek a smear of mud.

They fed him a little later on some chicken-feed that they found in Sidney’s quiet barn, a pail of buttermilk out of the dairy, and a quantity of onions from a shelf in the back-kitchen.

‘Seed-onions, most likely,’ said Connie.  ‘You’ll hear about this.’

‘What does it matter?  They ought to have been gilded.  We must buy him.’

‘And keep him as long as he lives,’ she agreed.  ’But I think I ought to go home now.  You see, when I came out I didn’t expect ...  Did you?’

’No!  Yes....  It had to come....  But if any one had told me an hour ago!...  Sidney’s unspeakable parlour—­and the mud on the carpet.’

‘Oh, I say!  Is my cheek clean now?’

’Not quite.  Lend me your hanky again a minute, darling....  What a purler you came!’

’You can’t talk.  ’Remember when your chin hit that table and you said “blast”!  I was just going to laugh.’

’You didn’t laugh when I picked you up.  You were going “oo-oo-oo” like a little owl.’

‘My dear child—­’

‘Say that again!’

’My dear child. (Do you really like it?  I keep it for my best friends.) My dee-ar child, I thought I was going to be sick there and then.  He knocked every ounce of wind out of me—­the angel!  But I must really go.’

They set off together, very careful not to join hands or take arms.

‘Not across the fields,’ said Midmore at the stile.  ’Come round by—­by your own place.’

She flushed indignantly.

‘It will be yours in a little time,’ he went on, shaken with his own audacity.

‘Not so much of your little times, if you please!’ She shied like a colt across the road; then instantly, like a colt, her eyes lit with new curiosity as she came in sight of the drive-gates.

‘And not quite so much of your airs and graces, Madam,’ Midmore returned, ‘or I won’t let you use our drive as a short cut any more.’