But Chilcote’s restlessness had increased.  Looking up, she suddenly caught the expression, and her own face changed.

“My dear Jack,” she said, softly, “what a bore I am!  Let’s forget tedious things—­and enjoy ourselves.”  She leaned towards him caressingly with an air of concern and reproach.

The action was not without effect.  Her soothing voice, her smile, her almost affectionate gesture, each carried weight.  With a swift return of assurance he responded to her tone.

“Right!” he said.  “Right!  We will enjoy ourselves!” He laughed quickly, and again with a conscious movement lifted his hand to his muffler.

“Then we’ll postpone the advice?” Lillian laughed, too.

“Yes.  Right!  We’ll postpone it.”  The word pleased him and he caught at it.  “We won’t bother about it now, but we won’t shelve it altogether.  We’ll postpone it.”

“Exactly.”  She settled herself more comfortably.  “You’ll dine with me one night—­and we can talk it out then.  I see so little of you nowadays,” she added, in a lower voice.

“My dear girl, you’re unfair!” Chilcote’s spirits had risen; he spoke rapidly, almost pleasantly.  “It isn’t I who keep away—­it’s the stupid affairs of the world that keep me.  I’d be with you every hour of the twelve if I had my way.”

She looked up at the bare trees.  Her expression was a delightful mixture of amusement, satisfaction, and scepticism.  “Then you will dine?” she said at last.

“Certainly.”  His reaction to high spirits carried him forward.

“How nice!  Shall we fix a day?”

“A day?  Yes.  Yes—­if you like.”  He hesitated for an instant, then again the impulse of the previous moment dominated his other feeling.  “Yes,” he said, quickly.  “Yes.  After all, why not fix it now?” With a sudden inclination towards amiability he opened his overcoat, thrust his hand into an inner pocket, and drew out his engagement-book—­the same long, narrow book fitted with two pencils that Loder had scanned so interestedly on his first morning at Grosvenor Square.  He opened it, turning the pages rapidly.  “What day shall it be?  Thursday’s full—­and Friday—­and Saturday.  What a bore!” He still talked fast.

Lillian leaned across.  “What a sweet book!” she said.  “But why the blue crosses?” She touched one of the pages with her gloved finger.

Chilcote jerked the book, then laughed with a touch of embarrassment.  “Oh, the crosses?  Merely to remind me that certain ’appointments must be kept.  You know my beastly memory!  But what about the day?  Shall we fix the day?” His voice was in control, but mentally her trivial question had disturbed and jarred him.  “What day shall we say?” he repeated.  “Monday in next week?”

Lillian glanced up with a faint exclamation of disappointment.  “How horribly faraway!” She spoke with engaging petulance, and, leaning forward afresh, drew the book from Chilcote’s hand.  “What about to-morrow?” she exclaimed, turning back a page.  “Why not to-morrow?  I knew I saw a blank space.”