One afternoon they sat in the sunny garden, the ladies busy with needlework, and Andrea playing snatches of dreamy things on the violin. The dainty remains of tea stood on a table, and the young man's crutch rested against it. Presently he began to play Tschaikowsky's "Chanson Triste." Miss Ursula, looking up, saw a girl of plain face and independent bearing standing by the gate. "Who is that, Janet?" she whispered. Miss Janet glanced round. "It is the impertinent young woman who was listening the other day." Andrea followed their glances, and, perceiving a third listener, half consciously played to her. When the piece was finished the girl slowly walked away. "I know it's wrong and unchristianlike," said Miss Widdington, "but I dislike that girl intensely." "So do I," said Miss Ursula. Then she laughed. "She looks like the wicked fairy in a story-book." VI The time came when he threw aside his crutch and flew, laughing, away beyond their control. This they did not mind, for he always came back and accompanied them on their wild rambles. He now resembled the ordinary young man of the day as nearly as the St. Madoc tailors and hosiers could contrive; and the astonishing fellow, with his cameo face and his hyacinthine locks, still looked picturesque. One morning he took Pendruddocke's fiddle and went off, in high spirits, and when he returned in the late afternoon his face was flushed and a new light burned in his eyes. He explained his adventures volubly. They had a vague impression that, Orion-like, he had been playing his stringed instrument to dolphins and waves and things some miles off along the coast. To please him they said "_Ja_" at every pause in his narration, and he thought they understood. Finally he kissed their hands. Two mornings later he started, without his fiddle, immediately after breakfast. To Miss Ursula, who accompanied him down the road to the village, he announced Polwern as his destination. Unsuspecting and happy, she bade him good-bye and lovingly watched his lithe young figure disappear behind the bounding cliff of the little bay. Miss Olga Danilof sat reading a novel by the door of the cottage where she lodged when the beautiful youth came up. He raised his hat--she nodded. "Well," she said in German, "have you told the funny old maids?" "_Ach_," said he, "they are dear, gracious ladies--but I have told them." "I've heard from my brother," she remarked, taking a letter from the book. "He trusts my judgment implicitly, as I said he would--and you are to come with me to London at once." "To-day?" "By the midday train." He looked at her in amazement. "But the dear ladies----" "You can write and explain. My brother's time is valuable--he has already put off his journey to Paris one day in order to see you." "But I have no money," he objected weakly.