“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to sound the wrong note.” In a shaking voice— “Give me the pad,” said Cicely. Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . . Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the grey-blue sheet. Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . . There they rested. This is not surprising. The man was human. And at that moment Cicely Berwick Voile was a sight for the high gods. The girl was always beautiful. Her features and colouring alone established that. Hers was the gay, fresh beauty of Nature herself. It argued the Spring in her blood. She was radiant, eager. The expectation of her mouth, the light in her big brown eyes were living, breathing glories that lifted up the heart. But now my lady was grown pensive. She had exchanged her ‘meadows trim, with daisies pied’ for ‘the studious cloister’s pale.’ Mirth sat in Melancholy’s seat, adorning that cold throne as never did its mistress. Her serious mien, the droop of her precious lips, the way she would fling up her head to gaze for an instant seawards while she sought for a phrase—her breathless, glowing charm, plunged for the moment into the dignity of thought, made an arresting picture. Rage had not seen her like this. Few people had. This was as well. Heaven knows, she was dangerous enough. Amaryllis weaving a garland sends your heart to your mouth. But Amaryllis contemplative, pacing the garden of Philosophy, shall send the blood to your head. Miss Voile turned suddenly to meet her companion’s eyes. Instantly both looked away—Toby at the parcel of chestnuts, and the girl at the broom by her side. Presently— “Here you are,” she said quietly, passing the writing-pad. Toby stared at the letter as at a death-warrant. _MY DEAR AUNT IRA,_ _This is just a line to thank you very much for all your kindness yesterday and to say how much I am looking forward to seeing you here on Thursday. I quite expect it will be fine, for the weather seems settled now, and I think you will enjoy the run. It is impossible to mistake the road, which runs through some lovely country as well as that charming and historical old town, Bayonne. I shall expect you about half-past one, and shall be at the entrance to the hotel from one on in case you are before time._ _I have no news except that Miss Voile and I have broken off our engagement, as we do not think we should get on together._ _Always your affectionate nephew,_ _TOBY._