“I thought you were never coming to see us again, Philip,” she said reproachfully, as she held out her little hand to him.  “What possessed them to bring you here?  It’s awfully untidy.”

“Phelps had an idea you were making music,” he explained; “and, for the untidiness, I suppose he remembered that I was used to it of old.”

“Yes, it’s just the same.  It is an untidiness of years, and it is hopeless to cope with it.  What have you got there?”

He turned the book round to acquaint himself.

“Ollendorf’s ‘Elementary German Grammar,’” he said with a smile; “it’s an interesting work.”

She made a little moue expressive of disapproval.

“Ah, how nice it is to have done with all that, Philip!  You can’t believe how glad I am to be ‘finished’; yes, I am finished now.  I don’t even have masters, and Miss Murison has gone away to Brighton and opened a school for young gentlemen.  Poor little wretches! how sorry I am for them!  Do you remember Miss Murison, Philip?”

She had sunk down into an arm-chair, and Rainham stood, his stooping shoulders propped against the mantelpiece, smiling down at her.

“Yes, I remember Miss Murison; and so you are glad her reign has come to an end, Eve?  Well, I suppose it is natural.”

She nodded her pretty head.

“Just a little, Philip.  But how tired you look!  Will you have some tea?  I suppose you have just come from Blackpool?”

His face darkened suddenly, and the smile for a moment died away.

“No,” he said shortly, “I have been in the Park.”

“Well,” she remarked after a moment, “you must have some tea, anyhow.  Of course you will wait and see mamma; she has gone to the Dollonds’ ‘at home,’ you know.  I an all alone.  If you like, we will have it in here, as we did in the old days—­a regular schoolroom tea.”

“It will be charming,” said Rainham, seating himself; “it will only want the Murison to complete the illusion.”

“Oh, it will do just as well without her,” said Eve, laughing; “ring the bell, please.”

Rainham sat back watching her with far-away eyes, as she moved lightly about, giving her orders with a childish imperiousness, and setting out the little tea-table between them.

“It is delightful,” he said again, when they were once more alone and he had accepted a well-creamed cup and a waferlike tartine; “and I feel as if I had turned back several years.  But how is it, by-the-bye, that you have not gone to the Dollonds’?”

She laughed up at him merrily.

“Because I have had much more important things to do.  I have been with my dressmaker.  I am going to a dance to-night, and I have had a great deal of bother over my new frock.  But it is all right now, and I shall wear it to-night; and it is perfectly sweet.  Oh, you have never seen me at a party yet, Philip.”

“Never?  My dear child, I have danced with you at scores.”