he was fond of his cousin.  He discussed the matter within himself, very calmly; made some excellent resolutions as to the kind of life which it would behove him to live as a married man; settled on the street in London in which he would have his house, and behaved very prettily to Bell for four or five days running.  That he did not make love to her, in the ordinary sense of the word, must, I suppose, be taken for granted, seeing that Bell herself did not recognise the fact.  She had always liked her cousin, and thought that in these days he was making himself particularly agreeable.

On the evening before the party the girls were at the Great House, having come up nominally with the intention of discussing the expediency of dancing on the lawn.  Lily had made up her mind that it was to be so, but Bell had objected that it would be cold and damp, and that the drawing-room would be nicer for dancing.

“You see we’ve only got four young gentlemen and one ungrown,” said Lily; “and they will look so stupid standing up all properly in a room, as though we had a regular party.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Crosbie, taking off his straw hat.

“So you will; and we girls will look more stupid still.  But out on the lawn it won’t look stupid at all.  Two or three might stand up on the lawn, and it would be jolly enough.”

“I don’t quite see it,” said Bernard.

“Yes, I think I see it,” said Crosbie.  “The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball—­”

“Nobody is thinking of a ball,” said Lily, with mock petulance.

“I’m defending you, and yet you won’t let me speak.  The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball will conceal the insufficiency of four men and a boy as a supply of male dancers.  But, Lily, who is the ungrown gentleman?  Is it your old friend Johnny Eames?”

Lily’s voice became sobered as she answered him.

“Oh, no; I did not mean Mr Eames.  He is coming, but I did not mean him.  Dick Boyce, Mr Boyce’s son, is only sixteen.  He is the ungrown gentleman.”

“And who is the fourth adult?”

“Dr Crofts, from Guestwick.  I do hope you will like him, Adolphus.  We think he is the very perfection of a man.”

“Then of course I shall hate him; and be very jealous, too!”

And then that pair went off together, fighting their own little battle on that head, as turtle-doves will sometimes do.  They went off, and Bernard was left with Bell standing together over the ha-ha fence which divides the garden at the back of the house from the field.

“Bell,” he said, “they seem very happy, don’t they?”

“And they ought to be happy now, oughtn’t they?  Dear Lily!  I hope he will be good to her.  Do you know, Bernard, though he is your friend, I am very, very anxious about it.  It is such a vast trust to put in a man when we do not quite know him.”

“Yes, it is; but they’ll do very well together.  Lily will be happy enough.”