"Miss Delia? Not one. But it's only the Latchford one that matters. Have you been talking to her?" He looked at her a little plaintively, as though he _could_ have reminded her that she had promised him a friend's assistance. "Of course! But I might as well talk to this table. She won't really make friends--nor will Miss Marvell allow her. It's the same, I find, with everyone else. However, I'm bound to say, the neighbourhood is just now in the mood that it doesn't much want to make friends!" "I know," said Winnington, with a sigh--relapsing into silence. "Is she taking an interest in the property--the cottages?" He shook his head. "I'm sure she meant to. But it seems to be all dropped." "Provoking!" said Madeleine, drily--"considering how you've been slaving to please her--" Winnington interrupted--not without annoyance-- "How can she think of anything else when she's once deep in this campaign? One must blame the people who led her into it!" "Oh! I don't know!" said Lady Tonbridge, protesting. "She's a very clever young woman, with a strong will of her own." "Captured just at the impressionable moment!" cried Winnington--"when a girl will do anything--believe anything--for the person she loves!" "Well the prescription should be easy--at her age. Change the person! But then comes the question: Is _she_ loveable? Speak the truth, Mr. Guardian!" Winnington began a rather eager assent. Watch her with the servants, the gardeners, the animals! Then you perceived what should be the girl's natural charm and sweetness-- "'Hm. Does she show any of it to you?" Winnington laughed. "You forget--I am always there as the obstacle in the path. But if it weren't for the sinister influence--in the background." And again he went off at score--describing various small incidents that had touched or pleased him, as throwing light upon what he vowed was the real Delia. Madeleine listened, watching him attentively the while. When he took his leave and she was alone, she sat thinking for some time, and then going to a cupboard in her writing-table, which held her diaries of past years, she rummaged till she found one bearing a date fifteen years old. She turned up the entry for the sixteenth of May: "She died last night. This morning, at early service, Mark was there. We walked home together. I doubt whether he will ever marry--now. He is not one of those men who are hurried by the mere emotion and unbearableness of grief, into a fresh emotion of love. But what a lover--what a husband lost!" She closed the book, and stood with it in her hand--pondering. * * * * * As he left her house, and turned towards the station Winnington passed a lady to whom he bowed, recognising her as Miss Andrews. "Hope you've got an umbrella!" he said to her cheerily, as he passed. "The rain's coming!"