Leander waited until he became impatient; then he called out that if she wanted to see the fishing-rod she had better come along. The girl rose immediately and accompanied her brother; she succeeded in displaying a proper degree of interest in the rod, so that its owner offered no criticism on her conduct. As for Lawrence, he did not stop in his walk, following the shore until he reached the hotel. He had not expected to find his wife in, but she was at a table in their sitting-room, apparently writing letters. The crow was on the back of her chair, occasionally thrusting his head about so that he could look over her shoulder, as if he could read the words she had written. Lawrence sat down quickly. He thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat and drew out his cigar-case. Having selected a cigar, he did not light it, but sat looking at it. Prudence laid down her pen. "You look rather done up," she remarked, in an indifferent voice. "Yes, I feel so," was the response. "I shouldn't think you'd walk so far," she said, with the same indifference. There was no answer to this. Presently Lawrence said, "I've given Devil away." At this the bird drew himself up and looked at the speaker. "What?" came somewhat sharply from Prudence. Lawrence repeated his words. "But I'm not going to part with the crow," said Prudence, positively. "He knows all my secrets,"--here she laughed,--"and, besides, he's my mascot. No, I sha'n't part with him." "He hasn't brought you any great luck, it seems to me." Lawrence put his unlighted cigar back in the case, stretched out his legs, and gazed at the toes of his shoes. "That's true enough," returned Prudence, "but I'm always hoping he will. I'm going to keep him. To whom did you give him?" "Leander Ffolliott." Prudence started perceptibly. She looked for an instant intently at her husband, her eyes narrowing in their old way as she did so. "Have you been there?" she asked. "No; I saw the boy on the rocks." "Perhaps you saw the boy's sister also." "Yes, I did." "Oh!" Prudence tipped her head back and laughed ringingly, her eyes still upon her husband's face. There was a little added color on her cheeks. The laugh was somehow so exasperating, so strangely insulting, that Lawrence rose to his feet in a fury. But he sat down again directly and resumed his old position. "You seem to be amused," he remarked, coldly. "Yes." She laughed again. "I was imagining the meeting,--such astounding propriety as I know characterized it. You would do the right thing, and Caro is nothing if not proper. Caro is a darling girl, and I love her dearly, but you must confess that she _is_ proper, Rodney dear." "Yes, I confess that," he said, grimly. "Certainly; she would never take the least little part in a French novel." "Never," he agreed, with emphasis.