Bernadette's gay and malicious humour persisted through lunch, but when, according to her promise, she sat with Arthur on the seat by the river, sheltered by a tree, her mood had changed; she was very friendly, but pensive and thoughtful beyond her wont. She looked at him once or twice as if she meant to speak, but ended by saying nothing. At last she asked him whether he has seen anything of the Sarradets lately. "Not since my lunch--when you met Marie," he answered. He was smoking his pipe and now and then throwing pebbles into the river--placidly happy. "I liked her awfully. You musn't drop her, Arthur. She's been a good friend to you, hasn't she?" "Oh, she's a rare good sort, Marie! I don't want to drop her, but somehow I've got out of the way of seeing so much of her. You know what I mean? I don't go where she does, and she doesn't go much where I do." "But you could make efforts--more lunches, for instance," she suggested. "Oh, yes, I could--sometimes I do. But--well, it's just that the course of my life has become different." "I'm afraid the course of your life means me to a certain extent." He laughed. "You began it, of course, when you came to Bloomsbury Street. Do you remember?" "Yes, I remember all right. But I don't want you to lose your friends through me." Again she glanced at him in hesitation, but this time she spoke. "You may find me a broken reed, after all, Cousin Arthur." He smoked for a moment, then laid down his pipe. "I'm fond of you all," he said. "You know how well Godfrey and I get on. I've made friends with Judith, and I'm making friends with Margaret. And--we're too good pals to say much--but you know what you are to me, Bernadette." "Yes, I know, Cousin Arthur." "So I don't know what you mean by talking about broken reeds." She gave a little sigh, but said no more for the moment. She seemed to be on another tack when she spoke again. "It's a wonderful thing to be alive, isn't it? I don't mean just to breathe and eat and sleep, but to be alive really--to--to tingle!" "It's a wonderful thing to see in you sometimes," he laughed. "Why, this morning, for instance, you--you seemed to be on fire with it. And for no particular reason--except, I suppose, that it was a fine day." She smiled again as she listened, but now rather ruefully. "For no particular reason!" She could not help smiling at that. "Well, I hope I didn't scorch anybody with my fire," she said. "You made us all madly in love with you, of course." She gave him a little touch on the arm. "Never mind the others. You mustn't be that, Cousin Arthur." He turned to her in honest seriousness. "As long as you'll be to me just what you are now, there's nothing to worry about. I'm perfectly content." "But suppose I should--change?" "I shan't suppose anything of the sort," he interrupted half-angrily. "Why should you say that?"