The girl could not say; she had repeated the name given to her. Nancy spoke to her friend in a low voice. ‘It may be Fanny. I don’t think Beatrice would call, unless it’s to say something about her sister. She had better come up here, I suppose?’ Mary retired, and in a few moments there entered, not Fanny, but Beatrice. She was civilly, not cordially, welcomed. Her eye, as she spoke the words natural at such a meeting, dwelt with singular persistency on Nancy’s face. ‘You are quite well again?’ ‘Quite, thank you.’ ‘It has been a troublesome illness, I’m afraid.’ Nancy hesitated, detecting a peculiarity of look and tone which caused her uneasiness. ‘I had a sort of low fever--was altogether out of sorts--“below par,” the doctor said. Are you all well?’ Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park. ‘I’m out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there’s Fanny. You know all about _her_, I dare say?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ Nancy replied distantly. ‘But your brother does. Hasn’t he been to see you yet?’ Nancy was in no mood to submit to examination. ‘Whatever I may have heard, I know nothing about Fanny’s, affairs, and, really, they don’t concern me. ‘I should have thought they might,’ rejoined the other, smiling absently. ‘She has run away from her friends’--a pause--‘and is living somewhere rather mysteriously’--another pause--‘and I think it more than likely that she’s _married_.’ The listener preserved a face of indifference, though the lines were decidedly tense. ‘Doesn’t that interest you?’ asked Beatrice, in the most genial tone. ‘If it’s true,’ was the blunt reply. ‘You mean, you are glad if she has married somebody else, and not your brother?’ ‘Yes, I am glad of that.’ Beatrice mused, with wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Then, fixing Nancy with a very keen look, she said quietly: ‘I’m not sure that she’s married. But if she isn’t, no doubt she ought to be.’ On Nancy’s part there was a nervous movement, but she said nothing. Her face grew rigid. ‘I have an idea who the man is,’ Miss. French pursued; ‘but I can’t be quite certain. One has heard of similar cases. Even _you_ have, no doubt?’ ‘I don’t care to talk about it,’ fell mechanically from Nancy’s lips, which had lost their colour. ‘But I’ve come just for that purpose.’ The eyes of mocking scrutiny would not be resisted. They drew a gaze from Nancy, and then a haughty exclamation. ‘I don’t understand you. Please say whatever you have to say in plain words.’ ‘Don’t be angry with me. You were always too ready at taking offence. I mean it in quite a friendly way; you can trust me; I’m not one of the women that chatter. Don’t you think you ought to sympathise a little with Fanny? She has gone to Brussels, or somewhere about there. But she _might_ have gone down into Cornwall--to a place like Falmouth. It was quite far enough off--don’t you think?’