Then the conversation drifted upon river topics, as it always drifts with those who spend the summer days idling about the upper reaches of the Thames--of punts, motor-launches, and sailing; of the prospects of regattas and the dresses at Sunbury Lock on the previous Sunday. They were all river enthusiasts, and river enthusiasm is a malady extremely contagious with those doomed to spend the dog-days gasping in a dusty office in stifled London. After tea followed tennis as a natural sequence, and while Moberly and his sister played with Dick and the youth who had accompanied the Moberlys, Mary and I wandered away into the wood which skirted the grounds of Riverdene. She was bright and merry, quite her old self of Shenley days, save perhaps for a graver look which now and then came to her eyes. She showed me the extent of their grounds and led me down a narrow path in the dark shadow to the bank to show me a nest of kingfishers. The spot was so peaceful and rural that one could scarcely believe one's self but twenty miles from London. The kingfisher, startled by our presence, flashed by us like a living emerald in the sunlight; black-headed buntings flitted alongside among the reeds, and the shy sedge warbler poured out his chattering imitations, while here and there we caught sight of moor-hens down in the sedge. She had, I found, developed a love for fishing, for she took me further down where the willows trailed into the stream, and pointed out the swirl over the gravel where trout were known to lie, showed me a bush-shaped depth where she had caught many a big perch, and a long swim where, she said, were excellent roach. "And you are happier here than you were at Shenley?" I inquired, as we were strolling back together, both bareheaded, she with her hat swinging in her hand. "Happy? Oh, yes," and she sighed, with her eyes cast upon the ground. "That sigh of yours does not denote happiness," I remarked, glancing at her. "What troubles you?" "Nothing," she declared, looking up at me with a forced smile. "It is puzzling to me, Mary," I said seriously, "that in all this time you've not married. You were engaged, yet it was broken off. Why?" At my demand she answered, with a firmness that surprised me, "I will never marry a man I don't love--never." "Then it was at your father's suggestion--that proposed marriage of yours?" "Of course, I hated him." "Surely it was unwise to allow the announcement to get into the papers, wasn't it?" "It was my father's doing, not mine," she responded. "When it was broken off I hastened to publish the contradiction." "On reading the first announcement," I said, "I imagined that you had at length found a man whom you loved, and that you would marry and be happy. I am sure I regret that it is not so." "Why?" she asked, regarding me with some surprise. "Do you wish to see me married, then?"