“In deference to Wilks’s terrors I am waiting here until he has gone,” said Hardy, with a half smile. There was a pause. “I hope that he will not be long,” said the girl. “Thank you,” returned Hardy, wilfully misunderstanding, “but I am in no hurry.” He gazed at her with admiration. The cold air had heightened her colour, and the brightness of her eyes shamed the solitary candle which lit up the array of burnished metal on the mantelpiece. “I hope you enjoyed your visit to London,” he said. Before replying Miss Nugent favoured him with a glance designed to express surprise at least at his knowledge of her movements. “Very much, thank you,” she said, at last. Mr. Hardy, still looking at her with much comfort to himself, felt an insane desire to tell her how much she had been missed by one person at least in Sunwich. Saved from this suicidal folly by the little common sense which had survived the shock of her sudden appearance, he gave the information indirectly. “Quite a long stay,” he murmured; “three months and three days; no, three months and two days.” A sudden wave of colour swept over the girl’s face at the ingenuity of this mode of attack. She was used to attention and took compliments as her due, but the significant audacity of this one baffled her. She sat with downcast eyes looking at the fender, occasionally glancing from the corner of her eye to see whether he was preparing to renew the assault. He had certainly changed from the Jem Hardy of olden days. She had a faint idea that his taste had improved. “Wilks keeps his house in good order,” said Hardy, looking round. “Yes,” said the girl. “Wonder why he never married,” said Hardy, musingly; “for my part I can’t understand a man remaining single all his life; can you?” “I never think of such things,” said Miss Nugent, coldly—and untruthfully. “If it was only to have somebody to wait on him and keep his house clean,” pursued Hardy, with malice. Miss Nugent grew restless, and the wrongs of her sex stirred within her. “You have very lofty ideas on the subject,” she said, scornfully, “but I believe they are not uncommon.” “Still, you have never thought about such things, you know,” he reminded her. “And no doubt you have devoted a great deal of time to the subject.” Hardy admitted it frankly. “But only since I returned to Sunwich,” he said. “Caused by the spectacle of Sam’s forlorn condition, I suppose,” said Miss Nugent. “No, it wasn’t that,” he replied. Miss Nugent, indignant at having been drawn into such a discussion, lapsed into silence. It was safer and far more dignified, but at the same time she yearned for an opportunity of teaching this presumptuous young man a lesson. So far he had had it all his own way. A way strewn with ambiguities which a modest maiden had to ignore despite herself. “Of course, Wilks may have had a disappointment,” said Hardy, with the air of one willing to make allowances. “I believe he had about fifty,” said the girl, carelessly.