Mrs. Turchill was so delighted with Torquay, in its increased towniness and shoppiness, its interesting Ritualistic services, at which it was agreeable to assist once in a way, however a well-regulated mind might disapprove all such Papistical innovations, that October had begun before she and her son returned to Hawksyard. Edgar had been glad to stay away. He shrank with a strange shyness from meeting Daphne; albeit he was always longing for her as the hart for water-brooks. He amused himself knocking about in his little yawl-rigged yacht, thinking of the girl he loved. Mrs. Turchill complained that he had grown selfish and inattentive. He rarely walked with her on the parade; he refused to listen to the town band; he went reluctantly to hear Miss Snevillici: and slumbered in his too-conspicuous front seat while that lady declaimed the Balcony Scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ ‘If it were not for Deborah I should feel horribly lonely,’ complained Mrs. Turchill. ‘And it is not right that I should be dependent upon a servant for society.’ Gerald had not yet returned. He had gone on a yachting expedition with an old college chum. He was enjoying the wild free life, and his letters to Madoline were full of fun and high spirits. ‘Next year we shall be here together, perhaps,’ he wrote. ‘I think you would like the fun. It would be so new to you after the placid pleasures of South Hill. And what a yacht we would have! This I am now upon is a mere cockleshell to the ship I would build for my dear love. There should be room enough for you and all your pets—Fluff and the squirrel, your books, your piano, and for Daphne, too, if she would like to come; only she is such a wild young person that I should live in constant fear of her falling overboard.’ Madoline read this passage to Daphne laughingly. ‘You see that he remembers you, dear. The thought of you enters into his plans for the future.’ ‘He is very kind: I am much obliged to him,’ Daphne answered icily. It was not the first time she had responded coldly to Madoline’s mention of her lover. Her sister felt the slight against her idol, and was deeply wounded. ‘Daphne,’ she said in a voice that was faintly tremulous in spite of her effort to be calm, ‘you have said many little things lately—or perhaps it is hardly what you have said, but only your looks and tones—which make me think that you dislike Gerald.’ ‘Dislike him! No, that is impossible. He has all the attributes which make people admired and liked.’ ‘Yet I don’t think you like him.’ ‘It is not in my nature to like many people. I like Edgar. I love you, with all my heart and soul. Be content with that, darling,’ said Daphne, kneeling by Madoline’s side, resting the bright head, with its soft silken hair, on her shoulder—the face looking downward and half hidden.