Two days later the Count returned. He surprised Adrienne in the act of gathering roses in the garden just before she went to her aunt's room for tea. Adrienne felt a sudden joy course through her veins as she saw him. She knew then how much she had missed him. "Well," he said to her, "how have things been going? Madame ma mère, how is she?" "Pretty well. She had an attack of—of what I think is nerves and depression and went to bed, but she is better again now. Before I forget, the Curé called upon you about a villager in distress. Her cow has died. It is Jeanne Couiller." "Why don't these peasants insure their cows?" he said a trifle impatiently. But he took his notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something into it. Adrienne looked at him, and glancing up he met her gaze. "A penny for your thoughts," he said lightly. "Why don't you take credit for what you do?" she asked him. "It is not fair to credit Aunt Cecily with your good deeds." He frowned. "I don't like any criticism on what I do or say," he said rather coldly. "I won't apologize for criticizing you," said Adrienne with her sunny laugh; "because if I am cowed by Aunt Cecily, I am not going to be cowed and browbeaten by you. She is weak and unhappy, you are strong. It is the weak who tyrannize. I have seen little Agatha, and I think she's perfectly charming. I had a very short visit, but I mean to go again." She could not but notice that whenever Agatha's name was mentioned, it evoked a smile from people's faces. Guy's rather stern countenance softened at once. "That's good to hear," he said. "And now I must see ma mère." The Countess brightened up, as she always did when her stepson appeared. It was a warm afternoon, and they had tea on the terrace and were quite a cheerful little party. But Adrienne fancied that, in spite of cheerful words, Guy was abstracted and absent in manner. He did not stay very long, pleading a lot of business which awaited his return. And when he went, it needed all her ingenuity to keep her aunt contented. "He is getting more and more unsociable. He comes round much less since you have been out here." "Of course he does," Adrienne assented cheerfully; "for he knows you are not left alone." "But you are becoming so dull, you have so little to say." Adrienne could not help laughing. "I suppose I have used up all my small talk, and there is so little to talk about. You are not interested in the village news. I think I must try and have some adventures when I walk out, and then I shall have something to tell you when I come back." "A good conversationalist needs no fresh material to talk about." "I have not lived long enough," said Adrienne demurely, "and I have led too quiet a life to be an interesting companion, I fear. Now if Uncle Tom were here, he would never stop talking; he's always amusing, and he's never at a loss." "Oh, Tom is the fool of the family," said the Countess with disdain.