“Dad’s always said he disapproved of long engagements,” Alix commented, amusedly, “but you ought to hear him now!  This thing—­ he won’t even call it an engagement—­it’s an understanding, or a preference—­is to be a profound secret, and Cherry’s to be twenty-one before any one else but ourselves knows—­”

“Your father is quite right!” Peter said sharply, in his most elderly manner.  They were resting after the first set, and Cherry and Martin, in the opposite court, were out of hearing.

“When your hair gets tossed back that way,” Alix observed innocently, “lots more gray shows!  I think you’re turning gray pretty young, Peter, aren’t you?  Are you forty yet?  You’re not forty, are you?”

“I’m thirty-six,” Peter answered briefly.  “My father was gray at twenty-seven!” he added, after a pause.

“I have a gray hair,” Alix started.  “People talk about the first gray hair—­”

Peter did not hear her.  There was beginning of a little hope in his heart.  Girls did not always fulfill their first engagements, did not often do so, in fact.  The thing was a secret; it might well come to nothing, after all.

That was the beginning, and after it, although it was arranged between them all that nothing should be changed, and that nobody but themselves should share the secret, somehow life seemed different.  Two or three days after the momentous day of the raising of the rose tree, Martin Lloyd went to his mine at El Nido, and the interrupted current of life in the brown bungalow supposedly found its old groove.

But nothing was the same.  The doctor, in the first place, was more silent and thoughtful than the girls had ever seen him before.  Anne and Alix knew that he was not happy about Cherry’s plans, if the younger girl did not.  He sighed, sat silently looking off from his book in the summer evenings, fell into deep musing even at his meals.  With Alix only he talked of the engagement, and she knew from his comments, his doubtful manner, that he felt it to be a mistake.  The ten years’ difference between Cherry and Martin distressed him; he spoke of it again and again.  In June he sent Cherry to a long-planned house-party at Menlo Park, but the girl came back after the third day.  “I didn’t have any fun,” she confessed, “I had to tell Olive, about me and Martin, I mean.  The boys there were all kids!”

Cherry was changed, too, and not only in the expected and natural ways, Alix thought.  She had always had a generous share of the family devotion, but she entirely eclipsed the others now.  Her daily letter from Martin, her new prospects, not only increased her importance in the other girls’ eyes, but innocently inflated her own self-confidence.  She received a diamond ring, and although at her father’s request she did not show it for a few weeks, eventually it slipped mysteriously from the little chamois bag on her neck, and duly appeared on her left hand.  She had promised to keep the engagement “or