‘That is just like Daphne,’ said her father, when he was told how she had insisted on walking all the way. ‘She is always beginning something tremendous and never finishing it. I daresay we shall have Turchill down here presently in search of a carriage to bring her the second half of the way.’ ‘Yesterday she gave herself a headache by roaming about the hills,’ said Aunt Rhoda; ‘she has not a particle of discretion.’ ‘Do you expect her to be full of wisdom at eighteen, Auntie?’ asked Madoline deprecatingly. ‘I can only say, my dear, that at eighteen I was not a fool,’ replied Mrs. Ferrers sourly; and Lina did not argue the question further, knowing but too well how her aunt was affected towards Daphne. The pedestrians made their appearance five minutes later, none the worse for their long walk through fields and vineyards, and across cottage-gardens and orchards, a walk full of interest and diversity. Daphne, flushed with exercise, looked ever so much better than she had looked at breakfast, where she had been without appetite even for her beloved rolls and honey. ‘I have a little business to arrange in Geneva,’ said Gerald, while they were all sitting about the airy drawing-room in a purposeless way, before settling down into their old quarters and old habits. ‘I think I shall take the train, as the quicker way, and then I can be back to dinner.’ Madoline looked surprised. ‘Have you anything very important to do in Geneva?’ she asked; ‘you never said anything about it before.’ ‘No; it is a necessity which has arisen quite lately. I’ll tell you all about it—afterwards. Good-bye till dinner-time. You must be tired after your morning drive, and you won’t feel inclined for much excursionising to-day.’ ‘I’m afraid we’ve seen everything there is to be seen within a manageable distance,’ said Mrs. Ferrers, rather dolefully. Daphne was sitting near the door. She had dropped into a low deep chair, and sat with her straw hat in her lap, full of wild flowers which she had gathered on her way down. Gerald stooped as he passed her, and took one of the half-withered blossoms—things so fragile in their delicate beauty that they faded as soon as plucked—and put it in his breast. The act was so carelessly done that no one seeing it would have perceived any significance in it, or could have guessed that the hand which took the flower trembled with suppressed feeling, and that the heart against which it lay beat loud with passion. ‘I am going to make all arrangements for our marriage,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Good-bye,’ she answered, looking straight up at him. He was gone. Her gaze followed him slowly to the door, and lingered there; then she rose and gathered up her flowers. ‘I think I’ll go to my room and lie down,’ she said to Madoline. ‘Please don’t let Edgar come worrying about me. Tell him to amuse himself without my company for once in a way.’