“They are all here, Major,” Peter cried, dragging me inside.  It was wonderful how young and happy he looked.  “Miss Corinne, and that loud Hullaballoo, Garry Minott, we saw prancing around at the supper—­you remember—­Holker gave him the ring.”

“And Miss MacFarlane?” I asked.

“Ruth!  Turn your head, my boy, and take a look at her.  Isn’t she a picture?  Did you ever see a prettier girl in all your life, and one more charmingly dressed?  Ruth, this is the Major ... nothing else ... just the Major.  He is perfectly docile, kind and safe, and—­”

“—­And drives equally well in single or double harness, I suppose,” laughed the girl, extending her hand and giving me the slightest dip of her head and bend of her back in recognition, no doubt, of my advancing years and dignified bearing—­in apology, too, perhaps, for her metaphor.

“In single—­not double,” rejoined Peter.  “He’s the sourest, crabbedest old bachelor in the world—­except myself.”

Again her laugh bubbled out—­a catching, spontaneous kind of laugh, as if there were plenty more packed away behind her lips ready to break loose whenever they found an opening.

“Then, Major, you shall have two lumps to sweeten you up,” and down went the sugar-tongs into the silver bowl.

Here young Breen leaned forward and lifted the bowl nearer to her hand, while I waited for my cup.  He had not left her side since Miss Felicia had presented him, so Peter told me afterward.  I had evidently interrupted a conversation, for his eyes were still fastened upon hers, drinking in her every word and movement.

“And is sugar your cure for disagreeable people, Miss MacFarlane?” I heard him ask under his breath as I stood sipping my tea.

“That depends on how disagreeable they are,” she answered.  This came with a look from beneath her eyelids.

“I must be all right, then, for you only gave me one lump—­” still under his breath.

“Only one!  I made a mistake—­” Eyes looking straight into Jack’s, with a merry twinkle gathering around their corners.

“Perhaps I don’t need any at all.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.  Here—­hold your cup, sir; I’ll fill it full.”

“No, I’m going to wait and see what effect one lump has.  I’m beginning to get pleasant already—­and I was cross as two sticks when I—­”

And then she insisted he should have at least three more to make him at all bearable, and he said there would be no living with him he would be so charming and agreeable, and so the talk ran on, the battledoor and shuttlecock kind of talk—­the same prattle that we have all listened to dozens of times, or should have listened to, to have kept our hearts young.  And yet not a talk at all; a play, rather, in which words count for little and the action is everything:  Listening to the toss of a curl or the lowering of an eyelid; answering with a lift of the hand—­such a strong brown hand, that could pull an oar, perhaps, or help her over dangerous places!  Then her white teeth, and the way the head bent; and then his ears and how close they lay to his head; and the short, glossy hair with the faintest bit of a curl in it.  And then the sudden awakening:  Oh, yes—­it was the sugar Mr. Breen wanted, of course.  What was I thinking of?