Wilfrid presently left the two to their gossip. The conversation naturally turned to him. 'How is his health?' Beatrice asked. 'He seems quite recovered. I don't think there was ever anything to occasion much alarm, but his father got frightened. I expect we shall bring him back from Switzerland as well as ever he was.' 'What ever has he done with himself the last two months?' mused the girl. 'Well, it has been rather hard to keep him occupied away from books. He has been riding a good deal, and smoking a good deal.' 'And talking a good deal?' 'Well, yes, Wilf is fond of talking,' admitted Mrs. Rossall, 'but I don't think he's anything like as positive as he was. He does now and then admit that other people may have an opinion which is worth entertaining. Celia Dawlish was with us a fortnight ago; she declared him vastly improved.' 'She told him so?' 'No, that was in private to me.' 'But I think Celia and he always got on well together,' said Beatrice in an idly meditative tone, moving the edge of her fan backwards and forwards a few inches above her face. A few minutes later, after a silence, she said-- 'Do you know what I am thinking?' 'What?' asked Mrs. Rossall, with an air of interest. 'That if I were to close my eyes and keep quiet I should very soon be fast asleep.' The other laughed at the unexpected reply. 'Then why not do so, dear? It's warm enough; you couldn't take any harm.' 'I suppose the walk has tired me.' 'But if you had no sleep last night? How is it you can't sleep, I wonder? Is it the same when you are at Cowes?' 'No, only in London. Something troubles me; I feel that I have neglected duties. I hear voices, as distinct as yours now, reproving me for my idle, frivolous life.' 'Nonsense! I am sure you are neither idle nor frivolous. Do doze off, if you can, dear; I'll go and get something to read.' 'You won't be angry with me?' the girl asked, in the tone of an affectionate weary child. 'I shall if you use ceremony with me.' Beatrice sighed, folded her hands upon the fan, and closed her lids. When Mrs. Rossall returned from the house with a magazine and a light shawl, the occupant of the hammock was already sound asleep. She threw the shawl with womanly skill and gentleness over the shapely body. When she had resumed her seat, she caught a glimpse of Wilfrid at a little distance; her beckoned summons brought him near. 'Look,' she whispered, pointing to the hammock. 'When did you see a prettier picture?' The young man gazed with a free smile, the expression of critical appreciativeness. The girl's beauty stirred in him no mood but that. She slept with complete calm of feature the half-lights that came through the foliage made an exquisite pallor on her face, contrasting with the dark masses of her hair. Her bosom rose and fell in the softest sighing; her pure throat was like marble, and her just parted lips seemed to need a protector from the bees....