"This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Urwin!" she exclaimed, rushing towards me gladly with outstretched hand. "I had no idea that you'd come down to-day. The Blains are up in town, you know. I should have gone, only I had a rather bad headache. We went up to Windsor yesterday with the Thurleys on their launch, and I suppose the sun upset me. It was unbearably hot." "Why do you persist in calling me Mr. Urwin?" I asked in a rather reproachful tone, still retaining possession of her hand. "Cannot you call me Frank?" She blushed slightly, and drew her hand forcibly away. Then motioning me to a seat she cast herself into a low armchair near me, stretching forth her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe. She made no response to my suggestion, so I repeated it. "Why should I call you by your Christian name?" she asked. "Because I call you by yours, Eva," I answered earnestly. "I really can't bear this persistent formality." She smiled, a rather curious smile it was, I thought. "So you're staying as guest here?" I went on, after a moment's pause. "Yes," she explained. "My Uncle Henry, in Inverness, is very ill and not expected to live; therefore they summoned mother by telegraph, with other members of the family. As the servants have had no holiday this year, she sent them away for a fortnight and closed the house, Mrs. Blain having invited me here." "Have you heard from your mother?" "Yes, I had a wire yesterday to say that she had arrived, safely," she answered, not, however, without a second's hesitation, as though she were debating whether or no to tell me the truth. "And Mr. Blain has not returned from Paris yet?" I asked. "No," she responded. "The Blains are talking of joining him next week, or perhaps the week after, and have invited me to accompany them. I should be delighted, for I love Paris." "You find the shops interesting?" I laughed. "Yes," she answered. "All women do, I suppose. At least I've met very few who, having been in Paris, haven't hunted for bargains at the Louvre, the Printemps, or the Bon Marche. Paris is worth visiting if only for one's hats, for you can often buy a hat for twenty francs exactly the same style and of better material than that for which you pay three or four guineas in Regent Street." "I'm not much of an expert in such things," I laughed, nevertheless recollecting how curious it was that Blain remained still in London. Might not his wife and daughter have gone up that day to visit him in his hiding-place? "But you've been awfully queer, I hear," she said concernedly. "You really don't look quite yourself even now. What has been the matter? We were all so concerned when we heard about it."