kept from proposing simply by a series of ridiculous obstacles. It
could not go on. He must get her away somewhere by himself, not for a
few minutes, as he had been doing up to the present, but for a solid
space of time.

It was after a long and particularly irritating rehearsal that the
idea of the lake suggested itself to him. The rehearsals took place in
one of the upper rooms, and through the window, as he leaned gloomily
against the wall, listening to a homily on the drama from Charteris,
he could see the waters of the lake, lit up by the afternoon sun. It
had been a terribly hot, oppressive day and there was thunder in the
air. The rehearsal had bored everybody unspeakably. It would be
heavenly on the lake, thought Jimmy. There was a Canadian canoe moored
to that willow. If he could only get Molly.

"I'm awfully sorry, Jimmy," said Molly, as they walked out into the
garden. "I should love to come. It would be too perfect. But I've half
promised to play tennis."

"Who wants to play?"

"Mr. Wesson."

A correspondent of a London daily paper wrote to his editor not long
ago to complain that there was a wave of profanity passing over the
country. Jimmy added a silent but heartfelt contribution to that wave.

"Give him the slip," he said earnestly. It was the chance of a
lifetime, a unique chance, perhaps his last chance, and it was to be
lost for the sake of an ass like Wesson.