The table had been decorated by Isola’s own hands. Dark crimson roses were lying on the fair white damask; one tall glass stood in the centre with three slim golden lilies, pale and heavy-headed, which filled the room with perfume. These came from one of the hothouses at Glenaveril, whence good-natured Mrs. Crowther had sent a basket of exotics in honour of the colonel’s return. The lamplight, the flowers, the pretty old Wedgwood service of creamy white and dull brown, made up a feast for Martin Disney’s eye, after a life spent mostly under canvas. He looked from the gaily adorned table to the face beside him, pallid and pinched, despite its sweetness. “My dear one, you are looking very ill,” he said, with an anxious air. “What an ungallant speech!” she answered, smiling at him with unexpected gaiety. “I have been fretting at your long, long absence, and you reproach me for my deteriorated appearance. Never mind, Martin, you will see how rosy and bright I shall get now our parting has come to an end.” “Yes, love, we must coax the roses back to your cheeks. I must have a good mount ready for you when the cubbing begins, and a few morning gallops will soon make a change in my fragile wife’s appearance. And I’ll charter a yacht and steep you in ozone.” “Oh, one gets enough of that on shore, there is no need to go further.” “But I thought you adored yachting? It was one of our grand schemes for the future, to hire a modest little yawl and go round the coast to Clovelly. Have you forgotten?” “No, no; only I don’t want you to waste your money--and, if we start a bigger stable----” “Ah, you don’t know what a Croesus I have become. You needn’t be afraid of ruining me. My poor lonely little wife. Why didn’t you send for Allegra?” “She wouldn’t have been of any good to me. She is all that is sweet and lovable, and she is your sister; but she wouldn’t have filled your vacant place. I should have only felt lonelier for having to talk every day, and pretend a kind of happiness. Being alone, I could bury myself in a book, and forget my troubles.” “This soup doesn’t look up to Tabitha’s old form. Do you know that among other delights of this earthly paradise I have been looking forward to Tabitha’s little dinners. I don’t believe there is a _chef_ in Paris who can cook so well as that self-taught genius, who ripened into perfection by a process of gradual evolution, from the early days when my mother discovered that nobody could make arrowroot or cook a mutton cutlet as well as Tabitha. By-the-by, why has not that good soul shown herself? I thought she would have disputed with you for my first kiss.” While he ran on in this fashion, Isola sat looking down at the table-cloth, pallid no longer, but crimson. “Tabitha has gone!” she said abruptly. “Tabitha gone--for a holiday?” “No, she has left me, altogether.”