The young man’s beaming countenance showed his delight.  “Good for you, Miss Bentley!  It would be great.  Let me have your plate while you squeeze in.”

This corner behind a mass of greens seemed to have been left with the intention of protecting an elaborate cabinet that occupied a shallow recess.  However it might be, here was a refuge, difficult of access, but possible.  Margaret Elizabeth held on to her hat and dived in.

“Grand!” she cried.  “This is beyond my wildest hopes,” and she perched herself on a short step-ladder, left here no doubt by the decorators, and held out her hands for the plates.  Mr. Brown found a more lowly seat beneath a bay tree.  They looked at each other and laughed.

“My position is a ticklish one, so to speak,” he observed, vainly trying to dodge the palm leaves to the right of him; “but I think we are reasonably safe from pursuit.”

“I haven’t the remotest idea where my aunt is,” Margaret Elizabeth remarked, eating her ice in serene unconcern.

“Say, Miss Bentley, I have heard my cousin speak of you—­Augustus McAllister, you know.”

“Are you Mr. McAllister’s cousin?” Miss Bentley’s tone and smile left it to be inferred that this fact above any other was a passport to her favour.  It must be regretfully recognised, however, that it would have been the same if Mr. Brown had mentioned the market-man.

Having thus successfully established his claim to notice, the Reporter, as was his custom, went on to explain that he belonged to the moneyless branch of the family.

Margaret Elizabeth assured him, in a grandmotherly manner, that it was much better for a young man to have his way to make in the world than to have too much money.

The Reporter owned this seemed to be the consensus of opinion.  How the strange notion had gained such vogue he could not understand, but there was no use kicking when you were up against it.

“Of course, it must be hard work, but it must be interesting.  Don’t you have exciting experiences?” Miss Bentley asked.

Oh, he had, certainly, and met such queer people, too.  There was a fellow who ran a Candy Wagon on the Y.M.C.A. corner, for instance.  “You ought to meet him, really, Miss Bentley, though, of course, you couldn’t very well.  He’s a character, and I have puzzled my brains to discover what he’s doing it for.”

Miss Bentley was interested and requested further enlightenment.

“Well, I have two theories in regard to him.  He is an educated man, and a gentleman, so far as I can tell, and I think he is either studying some social problem, or he is a detective on some trail.”

“I never thought——­” began Margaret Elizabeth.  “I mean,” hastily correcting herself, “I should never have thought of such an explanation.”

“He’s up to something, you may be sure,” Mr. Brown continued.  “I like to talk to him, and do, every chance I get.”