Out on the terrace the night was very still. From a steel-blue skythe stars looked down as calmly as they had looked on the night ofthe ball, when George had waited by the shrubbery listening to thewailing of the music and thinking long thoughts. From the darkmeadows by the brook came the cry of a corncrake, its harsh notesoftened by distance.

　　"What shall we do?" said Maud. She was sitting on the stone seatwhere Reggie Byng had sat and meditated on his love for AliceFaraday and his unfortunate habit of slicing his approach-shots. ToGeorge, as he stood beside her, she was a white blur in thedarkness. He could not see her face.

　　"I don't know!" he said frankly.

　　Nor did he. Like Lady Caroline and Lord Belpher and Keggs, thebutler, he had been completely overwhelmed by Lord Marshmoreton'sdramatic announcement. The situation had come upon him unheraldedby any warning, and had found him unequal to it.

　　A choking sound suddenly proceeded from the whiteness that wasMaud. In the stillness it sounded like some loud noise. It jarredon George's disturbed nerves.

　　"Please!""I c-can't help it!""There's nothing to cry about, really! If we think long enough, weshall find some way out all right. Please don't cry.""I'm not crying!" The choking sound became an unmistakable ripple ofmirth. "It's so absurd! Poor father getting up like that in frontof everyone! Did you see Aunt Caroline's face?""It haunts me still," said George. "I shall never forget it. Yourbrother didn't seem any too pleased, either."Maud stopped laughing.

　　"It's an awful position," she said soberly. "The announcement willbe in the Morning Post the day after tomorrow. And then the lettersof congratulation will begin to pour in. And after that thepresents. And I simply can't see how we can convince them all thatthere has been a mistake." Another aspect of the matter struck her.

　　"It's so hard on you, too.""Don't think about me," urged George. "Heaven knows I'd give thewhole world if we could just let the thing go on, but there's nouse discussing impossibilities." He lowered his voice. "There's nouse, either, in my pretending that I'm not going to have a prettybad time. But we won't discuss that. It was my own fault. I camebutting in on your life of my own free will, and, whatever happens,it's been worth it to have known you and tried to be of service toyou.""You're the best friend I've ever had.""I'm glad you think that.""The best and kindest friend any girl ever had. I wish . . ."She broke off. "Oh, well. . ."There was a silence. In the castle somebody had begun to play thepiano. Then a man's voice began to sing.

　　"That's Edwin Plummer," said Maud. "How badly he sings."George laughed. Somehow the intrusion of Plummer had removed thetension. Plummer, whether designedly and as a sombre commentary onthe situation or because he was the sort of man who does sing thatparticular song, was chanting Tosti's "Good-bye". He was giving toits never very cheery notes a wailing melancholy all his own. A dogin the stables began to howl in sympathy, and with the sound came acurious soothing of George's nerves. He might feel broken-heartedlater, but for the moment, with this double accompaniment, it wasimpossible for a man with humour in his soul to dwell on the deeperemotions. Plummer and his canine duettist had brought him toearth. He felt calm and practical.