For a fortnight he had fever, and was nursed untiringly by Salome, silent as a statue. When he had mended enough to be left alone and could walk about his room, he discovered he was to all intents a prisoner. His stout nurse had calmly locked the door on him to keep him out of mischief. “Serves me right for spying on them!” he thought, ashamed and angry, standing at the window, as he had done that first evening. “But, all the same, I think there’s some devilment going on here--hello!” he pushed the jalousy from him and leaned out. Beryl Corselas, idle and listless, stood in the courtyard alone. He had never seen her since she had brought him from the shore, and her beauty, that was so young and so pathetic, struck him afresh. “Are you better?” she cried, waving her hand to him. “Why don’t you come out?” “I can’t,” he answered calmly. “Salome has locked me in.” “Wait,” said the girl promptly. She ran across the yard, and he heard her light feet on the stair outside. “You were locked in!” she cried, opening the door and standing there, tall and lovely, her dark hair no longer hanging round her and her white dress immaculate, instead of being soaked with dew. “How funny!” “Isn’t it?” returned Heriot gravely. He led the way out, limping; he had no notion that Mrs. Erle should find her charge in his room. “Everything’s funny here, though,” the girl said thoughtfully. “I’m getting used to it. But even Andria has got queer since you came. She just sits and thinks, and she won’t let me out of her sight. She has a headache to-day, poor Andria! And Salome and the others are busy washing. This is the way, out this door.” She led him into the house through the empty kitchen, and at the voices, and laughter that came from the wash-tubs the man felt he must be a fool with his suspicions. Everything here was ordinary. Was he thinking all sorts of nonsense because he had heard a conversation not meant for him? In the drawing-room he was amazed at the luxury round him; the silk cushions and gorgeous embroideries that were so strange in this corner of the Azores. His companion made him sit down, and seated herself on the floor. She looked up at him, her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, and for the first time he saw what a curious face she had. There was something almost vacant in it, and yet it was not a stupid face, only utterly indifferent. The eyes that met his were startling in their strangeness, the irises raying out a tawny golden-yellow, while the eyebrows and lashes were like ink. The girl’s lips were a thrilling crimson, and yet the mouth bore a look of suppression, as if too early it had been acquainted with grief. “Yes,” she said, with a sudden laugh that startled him, “it is queer here. I am queer myself.” Heriot smiled, though he was taken aback. “You’re a child,” he said calmly; “you haven’t found yourself yet.”