The bark of a dog, short and sharp, struck on his ears. Then, "Patsy, Patsy, come here!" and a laugh. Judith was sitting on the trunk of a tree newly cut down, by the side of the path. She had a book in her lap; Patsy had been on guard beside her. "Where are you rushing to at six miles an hour?" she asked. "You frightened Patsy." He stopped in front of her. "Was I walking quickly? I--I'm not going anywhere in particular--just for a stroll before dinner." "A stroll!" She laughed again, raising her brows. "Sit down for a bit, and then we'll walk back together. You look quite hot." He sat down by her and lit a cigarette. But he did not meet her eyes. He sat staring straight before him with a frowning face, as he smoked. She made her inspection of him, unperceived herself, but she let him know the result of it. "You look rather gloomy, Arthur. Has anything happened?" "No--Well, except that Oliver Wyse has got here--about an hour ago, before tea." "Sir Oliver is much as usual, I suppose?" "I suppose so. I don't know him very well, you see." "Meeting him doesn't seem to have had a very cheering effect upon you. You look about as jolly as Hamlet." He shook his head impatiently, but made no answer. He did look very forlorn. She patted his shoulder. "Oh, come, cheer up! Whatever it is, grouching won't help. We mustn't have you going to bed too, like Godfrey." She gave him this lead, hoping that he would take it. It seemed better to her now that he should realise the truth, or some of it. He turned his face towards her slowly. She looked at him with grave eyes, but with a little smile--of protest, as it were, against any overdoing of the tragedy. "What does the fellow want here?" he asked in a very low voice. "All he can get," she answered brusquely. "That's my opinion anyhow, though I couldn't prove it." He did not move; he looked at her still; his eyes were heavy with another question. But he dared not put it--at least not yet. "Why is he allowed to come here then?" he grumbled. "Who's to stop him? Godfrey? From bed?" The remembrance of Godfrey turning his face to the wall answered her question. But she went on with a repressed vehemence, "Do you suppose Godfrey needs telling? Well, then, what could I do? And I'm not sure I'd do anything if I could. I've done my best with this family, but it's pretty hopeless. Things must happen as they must, Arthur. And you've no right to hold me responsible." "I can't understand it," he muttered slowly. "I thought you would by now--staying in the house." "But she'd never--let him?" His voice sank to a whisper. "I don't know. Women do, you know. Why not Bernadette?" "But she's not like that, not that sort," he broke out, suddenly angry again. She turned rather hard and contemptuous. "Not that sort? She's a woman, isn't she? She's never been like that with you--that's what you really mean." "It isn't," he declared passionately. "I've never--never had so much as a thought of anything like that."