She was composed as usual, and went about her daily occupations with the same calm manner, the same gentle methodical firmness as before, but to her father's loving eye there was something wanting, something amiss. As a practised musician detects the flat tones of an instrument not strung to concert-pitch, so the slightest discord jars on the senses of that true affection which renders all the perceptions painfully discerning and acute. "You are not well, my child," said Sir Henry, one hot summer's morning soon after the mysterious disappearance of Miss Ross, which Helen connected instinctively with Captain Vanguard, though too proud to inquire how far that injudicious young officer was concerned in such a catastrophe. "You are not well, dear, and you hide it for fear of making your old father uncomfortable. You don't go out enough, or it's this cursed weather, or something. We must amuse you, my darling. You're getting hipped. I'm the same myself sometimes. Did you go to the Opera last night after all?" "No, papa," was the answer; "I was too tired, and went to bed instead." "Did you drive out yesterday? I met your aunt coming here to take you." "No, papa--it was so hot." "What are you going to do to-day?" "Nothing, papa. I think----" "Helen, Helen, this will never do," burst out Sir Henry, smoothing her hair with a caress habitual to him from her childhood, a caress that brought the tears into her large soft eyes. "You're moped, you're miserable, and I feel as if it was my fault for being papa instead of mamma. It _must_ be dull for you, boxed up here, dependent on your aunt to get over the threshold, and she always was the most unpunctual person in the world except myself. Why don't you tell _me_ when you want to go anywhere? I'd give up every engagement, as you know. Let's do something after luncheon. The Botanical Gardens--the Ancient Masters--even the South Kensington Museum! There, I'm game for anything you like!" She could not help smiling, but it was a sad, wan smile, while she replied, "You're very good, dear, and I'm a spoiled girl, I know; but, indeed, I'd rather stay at home, and so I'm sure would you." "What have you settled about the concert to-morrow?" asked her father. "Sent an excuse." He pondered for a moment, and an expression of considerable annoyance crossed his face. "I must get you out of town, Helen," said he. "The worst of it is I can't leave London myself just now--at least, for more than a day. If I could we'd go abroad. Paris is empty and hot; but we might get into Normandy, have a week at Trouville, and come back by Dieppe. Would you like _that_?" "No, papa," she answered decidedly; but added, with hesitation, "if you could do without me, what I should like best would be to--to go back to Blackgrove at once." "My _dear_ Helen!" was all his astonishment allowed him to articulate. That a daughter of his should prefer the country to London, during the height of the season, seemed simply inexplicable.