The tea garden, the favourite port of call for afternoon drives from the resorts hereabouts, lay back of the hostelry in a narrow, ferny glen from which springs issued.

As Peter led the way up its rocky stair, they could hear the light laughter of a party just rising from one of the round rustic tables.

The group descending poured past them a summer-coloured runnel down the little glen, and left them face to face with Eunice, who had lingered, her dress caught on a point of the rustic chair.
"Mamma--you!" She looked trapped, accused, though sheer astonishment held the others dumb.

"We finished the game----" she began and stopped short; after all, her manner seemed to say, why shouldn't she have tea there with her friends?
She made as if to sweep past after them but Mrs.
Goodward never moved from the narrow path.

She was more embarrassed, Peter saw, than her daughter, and as plainly at bay.
"Now that we are here----" she began in her turn.
"Now that you have followed me here," the girl rang out, "what is it that you have to say to me ?" She was white and a bright flame spot showed on either cheek.
"I--oh," the elder woman by an effort drew the remnant of the grand manner about her; "it is Mr.Weatheral, I think, who might have something to say." She caught the occasion as it were on the wing.