As much refreshed by this incident as she would have been by a good strong cup of tea, she made her way to the gardener’s cottage, her last port of call before going up to Nunspardon.

When her figure, stoutly clad in her District Nurse’s uniform, had bobbed its way out of the enclosed garden, Rose Cartarette and Mark Lacklander looked at each other and laughed nervously.

Lacklander said, “She’s a fantastically good sort, old Kettle, but at that particular moment I could have done without her. I mustn’t stay, I suppose.”

“Don’t you want to see my papa?”

“Yes. But I shouldn’t wait. Not that one can do anything much for the grandparent, but they like me to be there.”

“I’ll tell Daddy as soon as he comes in. He’ll go up at once, of course.”

“We’d be very grateful. Grandfather sets great store by his coming.”

Mark Lacklander looked at Rose over the basket he carried and said unsteadily, “Darling.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Honestly; don’t.”

“No? Are you warning me off, Rose? Is it all a dead loss?”

She made a small ineloquent gesture, tried to speak and said nothing.

“Well,” Lacklander said, “I may as well tell you that I was going to ask if you’d marry me. I love you very dearly, and I thought we seemed to sort of suit. Was I wrong about that?”

“No,” Rose said.

“Well, I know I wasn’t. Obviously, we suit. So for pity’s sake what’s up? Don’t tell me you love me like a brother, because I can’t believe it.”

“You needn’t try to.”

“Well, then?”

“I can’t think of getting engaged, much less married.”

“Ah!” Lacklander ejaculated. “Now, we’re coming to it! This is going to be what I suspected. O, for God’s sake let me get rid of this bloody basket! Here. Come over to the bench. I’m not going till I’ve cleared this up.”