“I’m afraid it was my fault, though you had very bad luck,” said the man, noticing her look.  “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“It was your fault,” Sylvia rejoined, with some petulance.  “When I held my best hand I was deceived by your lead.  Besides, as I told the others, I didn’t mean to play; you shouldn’t have come down and persuaded me.”

Bland considered.  On the whole Sylvia played a good game, but she was obviously a little out of practise, for his lead had really been the correct one, though she had not understood it.  This, however, was of no consequence; it was her concluding words that occupied his attention.  They had, he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of their significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty of any ill-considered admission.

“Then I’m flattered that my influence goes so far, though it’s perhaps unlucky in the present instance,” he said boldly.  “I’ll own that I’m responsible for our misfortunes and I’m ready to take the consequences.  Please give me that book.”

“No,” Sylvia replied severely.  “I feel guilty for playing at all, but the line must be drawn.”

“Where do you feel inclined to draw it?”

They had reached the hall and Sylvia turned and looked at him directly, but with a trace of coquetry.

“At allowing a comparative stranger to meet my losses, if I must be blunt.”

“The arrangement isn’t altogether unusual.  In this case, it’s a duty, and the restriction you make doesn’t bar me out.  I’m not a stranger.”

“A mere acquaintance then,” said Sylvia.

“That won’t do either.  It doesn’t apply to me.”

“Then I’ll have to alter the classification.”  She broke into a soft laugh.  “It’s difficult to think of a term to fit; would you like to suggest something?”

Several epithets occurred to the man, but he feared to make too rash a venture.

“Well,” he said, “would you object to—­confidential friend?”

Sylvia’s smile seemed to taunt him.

“Certainly; it goes too far.  One doesn’t become a confidential friend in a very limited time.”

“I’ve known it happen in a few days.”

“Friendships of that kind don’t last.  In a little while you find you have been deceived.  But we won’t talk of these things.  You can’t have the book, and I’m going out.”

He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders, and they strolled on to the terrace.  The night was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields, with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind them, stretched away in the moonlight.  After a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped wall.

“It’s really pretty,” she remarked.

“Yes,” returned Bland; “it’s more than pretty.  There’s something in it that rests one.  I sometimes wish I could live in such a place as this altogether.”