Monsieur D’Arblet discoursed upon the weather and the beauty of the gardens, with long and expressive pauses between each insignificant remark, and the air of a man who wishes to say, “I could talk about much more interesting things if that other fellow was out of the way.”

Denis Wilde simply reversed himself, that is to say, he lay on his back instead of his face, stared up at the sky, and chewed grass perseveringly.  He had evidently no intention of being driven off the field.

“I had something of great importance to say to you this evening,” murmured Monsieur D’Arblet, at length, looking fixedly at his enemy’s upturned face.

“All right, go ahead, don’t mind me,” says the young gentleman, amiably.  “I’m never in the way, am I, Miss Nevill?”

“Never, Mr. Wilde,” answers Vera, sweetly.  Like a true woman, she quite appreciates the fun of the situation, and thoroughly enjoys it; “pray tell me what you have to say, monsieur.”

“Ah!  Ces choses-la ne se disent qu’a deux!” murmurs he Frenchman, with a sentimental sigh.

“It is no use your saying it in French,” says Denis, with a chuckle, twisting himself round again upon his chest, “because I have the good fortune, D’Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, absolutely like a native.”

“You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, and three is none,” retorts D’Arblet, with a smile.

“I’m awfully sorry, old fellow; but I am so exceedingly comfortable, I really can’t get up; if I could oblige you in any other way, I certainly would.”

“Come to dinner!” cries out Mrs. Hazeldine, coming towards them from the garden side of the lawn; “we are all here now.”

The two men sprang simultaneously to their feet.  This is, of course, the moment that they have both been waiting for.  Each offers an arm to Miss Nevill; Monsieur D’Arblet bends blandly and smilingly forward; Denis Wilde has a thunder-cloud upon his face, and holds out his arm as though he were ready to knock somebody down with it.

“What am I to do?” cries Vera, laughing, and looking with feigned indecision from one to the other.

“Make haste and decide, my dear,” says Mrs. Hazeldine; “for whichever of you two gentlemen does not take in Miss Nevill must go and take that eldest Miss Frampton for me.”

The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large and bony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the military men she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, like a man.  She goes familiarly amongst her acquaintance by the name of the Dragoon.

A cold shiver passes visibly down Mr. Wilde’s back; unfortunately Miss Nevill perceives it, and makes up her mind instantly.

“I would not deprive you of so charming a companion,” she says, smiling sweetly at him, and passes her arm through that of the French vicomte.