Engrossed in talk, the cousins paced to and fro among the falling shadows of the garden for another hour. It was an hour, a talk, which neither of the Arbuthnots would be likely to refer to, which neither certainly would forget this side the grave. By and by, when night had come in earnest, when the roses and jasmines that clung round the hotel verandahs smelt dewy sweet, Gaston returned to the house alone. He entered through the little court that had been fitted up as his studio. Here a flicker of starlight overhead showed him his tools, his unfinished models, his working blouse, all the implements of his craft, neatly set in order as Dinah’s hand left them. Passing on into the parlour he found himself in darkness, silence. For a moment a nameless fear--the possibility that she was gone--contracted Gaston Arbuthnot’s heart. Then, with soft, eager step he made his way to his wife’s bedroom, laid his hand on the lock, and opened the door by an inch. A solitary light burned there. ‘May I come in, Dinah? Can I be of use to you in your packing?’ To this she answered not, or answered in so low a voice that Gaston’s ear could not catch the sound. He pushed back the door wide and entered, making fast the lock behind him. Dinah’s packing, to the smallest detail, was complete. Her boxes, labelled and corded, stood in a row; her wraps were put up; her travelling bag was strapped. Dinah herself sat in a low chair beside the curtained half-open window. The light from a hand lamp on the mantelshelf just enabled Gaston to discern the dead whiteness of her tired face. ‘Your packing done?’ he asked her. ‘And have you moved these heavy boxes by yourself?’ ‘The Frenchwoman helped me. I had no need of her--my arms are strong--but when she insisted, I thought it would look strange to refuse longer. I tried to speak to her lightly--just saying that I had to go away, of a sudden, to stay with friends in England.’ ‘That was wise. It were a pity that idle tongues should begin to talk of us already.’ No answer came to this. Gaston saw that her hands trembled as they lay tightly clasped together on her knee. ‘And about money, Dinah?’ Crossing the room, Mr. Arbuthnot shut down the window, then placed himself at the distance of two or three feet from his wife. He looked at her long and tenderly, looked as though on that white, strained face he saw some beauty which the dulness of his senses, the selfishness of his heart, had never during the past four years let him discover. ‘Geoffrey and I have just had a long talk. I believe, as far as Southampton, you had better let Geff be purse-holder. Then we must think of the future. We must plan as to a permanent settlement. I am a poor man, you know, Dinah, or rich only by fits and starts. If I can secure to you two hundred pounds a year, could you make it enough?’