not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.

“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat — ”

No business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”

“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”

“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”

They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.

“Well, I can't help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds.