Above, the sky was very blue, and the ruminating silence was broken only by the honk-honk of a distant motor.  The carp, impeded in his lethargic progress by the thick stem of a water-lily, had stood still (if a fish can be said to stand) for a century—­nearly five minutes—­his silly old nose pointing stubbornly at the obstacle.

“It won’t move, so you’ll have to,” observed Kingsmead, wriggling a little nearer, “Oh, I say do buck up, or you’ll never get there——­”

And the carp, quite as if he understood, did buck up, and slid away into the shadow of the rhododendrons.

Kingsmead rose slowly and picked up his cap.  What should he do next?  The puppies weren’t bad, nor the new under-gardener who swore so awfully at his inferior, nor——­

“Hello, Tommy.”

“Hello, Bicky.”

Brigit Mead wore a short blue skirt, brown shoes, a pink wash-silk blouse made like a man’s shirt, and a green felt hat that obviously belonged to someone else.  She was dressed like thousands of English girls, and she looked as though the blood in her might be any in the world but English.  Hers was an enigmatic, narrow, high-bred face, crowned by masses of dry black hair, and distinguished from any other face most people had ever seen by the curved line of her little nose and the colourless darkness of her very long, half-closed, heavily lashed eyes.  She looked sulky, disagreeable, and secretive, but she was strangely and undeniably beautiful.  Her long, thin-lipped mouth was too close shut, but it was of an exquisite satin texture, scarlet in colour, and when she said “Hello, Tommy,” it melted into the most enchanting and indescribable curves, showing just a glimpse of pointed white teeth.

Kingsmead studied her gravely for a moment.

“Been crying?”

“Yes.”

“That bill?”

“Yes, that bill, you horrid little boy.  There’s a long worm in your hair.”

Kingsmead removed the worm.

“Mater been nasty?”

“Beastly.”

“H’m.  I say, Bick, I saw Ponty yesterday.”

Brigit, who had turned and was gazing across the lawn, looked at him without moving her head, a trick which is not at all English.

“Did you, now?”

“I did.  He is dining here, he says.  He is also sending you some flowers.  I told him,” added the boy dreamily, “that we had lots ourselves.”

After a moment, as she did not speak, he went on, “Poor old thing, why did you poggle him so awfully, Bicky?  You really are a horrid girl, you know.”

“I didn’t poggle him.”

She did not turn, she did not smile, and the sombreness that was the dominant expression of her face was strange to see in a girl of her age.

“Well——­” Kingsmead’s small countenance, so different from hers in its look of palpitating interest and curiosity, suddenly flushed a deep and a beautiful red.  “I say, old girl,” he broke out, “are you going to?”