“Dear Mrs. Dickinson knew through me how fond of shooting you are.  We owe it all to her,” said Rosamund, in conclusion.  “I’ve written to thank him, and to say how glad you’ll be.”

“But you must come too,” he said.  “You shot in Greece, you must shoot again here.”

“I don’t think I will here,” said Rosamund, confidentially and rather mysteriously.

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t think the Dean would approve of it.  And he’s been so bricky about Mr. Thrush that I shouldn’t like to hurt him.”

“I can’t go alone.  I shall take Robin then.”

He spoke half-laughingly.

“Robin?”

“Yes, why not?  I’m sure he’d love to go.”

“Of course he would.  But how could his little legs walk over stubble?  He’s not four years old yet.”

“Robin’s got to be Doric.  He can’t begin too soon.”

She smiled, then looked at him seriously.

“Dion, do you know that you’ve come back much more Doric than you were when you went out?”

“Have I, Rose?”

“Much more.”

“Do you like me less because of that?”

She blushed faintly.

“No,” she said.

That faint blush made Dion’s heart bound, he scarcely knew why.  But he only said soberly: 

“I’m glad of that.  And now about Robin.  You’re right.  He can’t walk over stubble with me, but why shouldn’t I stick him on a pony?”

“Oh—­a pony!  How he would love it!”

“Can’t I get hold of one?”

“But Job Crickendon’s got one!”

“Job Crick—­ . . . ?”

“Mrs. Dickinson’s brother who’s lending you the partridges.  Don’t say another word, Dion.  I’ll arrange it all.  Robin will be in the seventh heaven.”

“And you must come with us.”

Rosamund was about to speak quickly.  Dion saw that.  Her eyes shone; she opened her lips.  But something, some sudden thought, stopped her.  After a minute she said quietly: 

“We’ll see.”

And she gave Dion a curious, tender look which he did not quite understand.  Surely she was keeping some delicate secret from him, one of those dear secrets which perhaps will never be told, but which are sometimes happily guessed.

Dion could not help seeing that Rosamund eagerly wanted to attach him to Welsley.  He felt that she had not honestly and fully faced the prospect of returning to live in London.  Her plan—­he saw it plainly; the partridge shooting was part of it—­was to make Welsley so delightful to him that he would not want to give up the home at Little Cloisters.  What was to be done?  He disliked, he almost hated, the thought that his return would necessitate an unpleasant change in Rosamund’s life.  Yet something within him told him that he ought to be firm.  He was obliged to live in London, and therefore it was only natural and right that Rosamund and Robin should live in London too.  After this long separation he ought not to have to face a semi-bachelor life; three days of the week at Little Cloisters and four days alone in Little Market Street.  He must put Rosamund to the test.  That faint blush, which he would not soon forget, made him hope that she would come out of the test triumphantly.