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 part. And even the comedian, George could not help admitting, showed signs on the eve of becoming funny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way back to the hotel.

In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied. He recognized the occupant.

"I've just come back from a rehearsal," he said, seating himself beside her.

"Really?"

"The whole thing is different," he went on, buoyantly. "They know their lines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased about it."

"Really?"

George felt damped.

"I thought you might be pleased, too," he said, lamely.

"Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident this afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people in the play."

"You heard about it?"

"I have been hearing about nothing else."

"Curious it happening so soon after"

"And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious."

There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell with women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as if

He changed the subject.

"How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?"

"Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly."

George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again.

"Will you have time to give me another lesson to-morrow?" he said.

She turned on him.

"Mr. Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?"

Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare half-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotions were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel now.

"Miss Vaughan! I don't understand."

"Really?"

"What have I done?"

"You have forgotten how to swim."

A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of George's forehead.

"Forgotten!"

"Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, and to-day I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I saw you at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and to-day you are taking lessons. Can you explain it?"

A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line.

She went on.

"Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertised somehow. But"

"You don't think" croaked George.

"I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but, of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being a conspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episode attracted so little attention. To-day it was much more satisfactory, wasn't it? I am so glad."

There was a massive silence for about a hundred years.

"I think I'll go for a short stroll," said George.

Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr. Mifflin emerged from the shadow beyond the veranda.

"Could you spare me a moment?"

The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head coldly.

"My name is Mifflin," said the other, dropping comfortably into the chair which had held the remains of George.

The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than that to embarrass Mr. Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but not coldness.

"The Mifflin," he explained, crossing his legs. "I overheard your conversation just now."

"You were listening?" said the girl, scornfully.

"For all I was worth," said Mr. Mifflin. "These things are very much a matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have had to stand concealed up stage drinking in the private conversation of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me. However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wished to say was that I heard you—unknowingly, of course—doing a good man a grave injustice."

"Mr. Callender could have defended himself if he had wished."