master where, till now, he had been bested; and by the stabbings of
his wounded vanity.

On Monday morning, then, he caught the ten o'clock train to town, hot
in the determination immediately to see her and instantly to press his
suit. He would try, he told himself, a new strategy. Bold assault had
been proved ill-advised; for frontal attack must be substituted an
advance more crafty. Its plan required no seeking. He would play--and,
to a certain extent, would sincerely play--the part of penitent. He
would apologise for Friday's lapse; would explain it to have been the
outcome of sheer despair of ever winning her good graces.

As to where he would find her he had no doubts. Dozing one day over a
book, he had not driven David and Angela from the room until they had
forced upon him a wearisome account of the secluded seat they had
discovered in Regent's Park. His patience in listening was an example
of the profit of casting one's bread upon the waters; for, making
without hesitation for the seat, he discovered Mary.



III.

The children, as he approached, were standing before her. David had
scratched his finger, and the three were breathlessly examining the
wounded hand for traces of the disaster. Brightly Mary was explaining
that the place of the wound was over the home of very big drops of
"blug," which could not possibly squeeze out of so tiny a window; when
Angela, turning at footsteps, exclaimed: "Oh, dear, oh, dear, what
_shall_ we do? Here's Bob!"