‘I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions still bore the impress of his body. ‘I got sick of it. I had some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done. I’m going away to-morrow or the day after.’ ‘Back to Paris?’ ‘No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled for a minute. ‘She thinks I need a holiday.’ To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like Martin: ‘I want you to meet her?’ She came and stood beside him. ‘Well, I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter wretchedness out of her voice. ‘I only came to see how you were.’ ‘It was very sweet of you, Judy.’ His voice was all at once gentle and caressing. He took her hand up lightly, and played with the fingers; and she felt the old helplessness start to drown her. ‘Well, it’s good-bye, I suppose, Roddy,’ she said very low. ‘It looks like it, Judy.’ ‘Always, always going away. Aren’t you?’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen more of you, Judy. We haven’t had any of our serious conversations this time, have we?’ Oh, the charming mockery and indifference!... She took her hand away and said briefly: ‘No, we haven’t.’ This time there would be nothing new and delightful to remember. Save for this present vain exchange of words, they had scarcely spoken to one another. The evening when they had all bathed together, the afternoon she had played tennis with them, neither eyes nor voices had encountered each other secretly, alone together. She had seen him watching her now and then: that was all. ‘Last time we met,’ he said, his eyes on her, ‘we had a very serious conversation.’ ‘Ah, I thought you’d forgotten that.’ She felt herself tremble slightly. ‘No. No.’ His fixed gaze never wavered from her face; and she could not move. She looked down and saw, on the writing-table, a white square and the name Anthony Baring, Esq., on it. Roddy had a delicate and graceful hand-writing. ‘There’s the car,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, I must go.’ ‘Come this way, through the garden door.’ He got up and put his arm round her and led her towards the door, clasping her close to him. The reddish light pressed, whispering and furtive. ‘You kissed me last time,’ he murmured. ‘Will you kiss me again?’ She swiftly kissed his cheek. He laughed; then drew his breath in suddenly and stopped laughing. Down came his stranger’s face to hers. She felt his mouth hard, and her own terribly soft and yielding. The pressure of his lips was painful, alarming,--a contact never dreamed of. She drew back and saw, in the mirror opposite, her own white-faced reflection, one hand to its mouth. ‘To-night,’ he said very low, ‘shall I come and fetch you in the canoe? We’ll go down, down,--to the islands. Just us two. Shall I come?’ She nodded, speechless. ‘Late. Be waiting for me about eleven.’ He added, in his usual, careless voice: ‘Not unless it’s fine, of course. There may be a thunderstorm.’