“Oh dear, I’m afraid you won’t be able to get it right that way!” she said—­“I had better write it in English,—­why, here’s Mr. Walden!” This, as she saw the clergyman’s tall athletic figure entering Mrs. Tapple’s tiny garden,—­“Good-morning, Mr. Walden!” and as he raised his hat, she smiled graciously—­“I want to send off a French telegram, and I’m afraid it’s rather difficult—–­”

A glance at Mrs. Tapple explained the rest, and Walden’s eyes twinkled mirthfully.

“Perhaps I can be of some use, Miss Vancourt,” he said.  “Shall I try?”

Maryllia nodded, and he walked into the little office.

“Let me send off those telegrams for you, Mrs. Tapple,” he said.  “You know you often allow me to amuse myself in that way!  I haven’t touched the instrument for a month at least, and am getting quite out of practice.  May I come in?”

Mrs. Tapple’s face shone with relief and gladness.

“Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn’t a real blessin’ that you happened to look in this mornin’!” she exclaimed—­“For now there won’t be no delay,—­not but what I knew a bit o’ French as a gel, an’ I’d ’ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no matter how slow,—­but there! you’re that handy that ‘twon’t take no time, an’ Miss Vancourt will be sure of her message ‘avin’ gone straight off from here correct,—­ an’ if they makes mistakes at Riversford, ’twon’t be my fault!”

While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the telegraphic apparatus.  His back was turned to Maryllia, but he felt her eyes upon him,—­as indeed they were,—­and there was a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presenty looked round and said: 

“May I have the telegram?”

“There are two—­both for Paris,” replied Maryllia, handing him the filled-up forms—­“One is quite easy—­in English.”  “And the other quite difficult—­in French!”—­he laughed.  “Let me see if I can make it out correctly.”  Thereupon he read aloud:  “’Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris.  Je desire que Cicely passe l’ete avec moi et qu’elle arrive immediatement.  Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici.  Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.’  Is that right?”

Maryllia’s eyes opened a little more widely,—­like blue flowers wakening to the sun.  This country clergyman’s pronunciation of French was perfect,—­more perfect than her own trained Parisian accent.  Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration.  ‘Passon’ knew everything!

“Is it right?” Walden repeated.

Maryllia gave a little start.

“Oh I beg your pardon!  Yes—­quite right!—­thank you ever so much!”