He ought to have known more about Annette than about anybody else, for nine-tenths of his time--all, indeed, that he could spare from the somewhat assiduous attentions of his host--were given to her. He walked with her, made long explorations of the neighbouring cliffs, long expeditions inland among the lovely Devonshire lanes, lovelier still with the fiery hue of autumn, and even induced her to join him and Paul in sundry boat-excursions, where, well wrapped up in rugs and tarpaulins, she lay on the flush-deck of the little fishing-smack, half frightened, half filled with childlike glee at her novel experience. Paul had often laughed and said to their common associates, "When old George is caught, you may depend upon it, it will be a very desperate case." And "old George" was caught now, Paul thought, and thought rightly: the delicacy, the good nature, the sweet womanly graces of the girl showing ever and anon between her sufferings--for during George's stay at Beachborough, Annette had been free from any regular attack, yet from time to time there were threatenings of the coming storm which were perfectly perceptible to his experienced eye--nay, perhaps the very fact of the malady under which she laboured, and the position in which she was placed, had had strong influence over George Wainwright's honest heart. As for Paul, he was so thoroughly astonished at the change which had taken place in his cousin since George's arrival, and at the wonderful pains and trouble which George himself took to interest and amuse Annette, that this wonderment entirely filled so much of his time as was not devoted to thinking of Daisy. He wondered and pondered, and at last the conviction grew strong upon him, that George must be in love.