Ada was outwardly more restless than usual. A taste for rambling possessed her; she disappeared for long afternoons, and did not take her sketching implements, though the country was in its finest autumn colouring. Probably she was weary, for the time, alike of books and drawing. In all her interests she had periods of enthusiasm and of disgust; days when she worked incessantly from dawn till midnight, grudging scanty intervals for meals, and others when nothing could relieve her _ennui_. She did not ride, in spite of her opportunities; walking was the only out-of-door recreation possible to her. One evening, a week after Mr. Kingcote’s visit, she returned only just in time for dinner at seven o’clock, and, after sitting in silence through the meal--she was alone with Mrs. Clarendon, who was likewise indisposed for talking, and had a look of trouble seldom seen on her face--went to the library to read or otherwise occupy herself. A servant brought a lighted reading-lamp, lowered the blinds, and drew the heavy red curtains across the window recesses. Left alone, Ada consulted her watch, and, stepping to the window which looked from the end of the house on to a shrubbery, put aside one of the curtains. She had scarcely done so when she heard a light tap on the outside of the pane. The sound made her start and draw a little away; she looked nervously to the door, then ran across the room and, with precaution, turned the key in the lock. Her face was slightly flushed and her manner nervous. After the lapse of a minute there came a repetition of the tapping from without. She quickly raised the blind and lifted the lower sash of the window, then again drew back. A man forthwith vaulted into the room. He looked about him, closed the window, drew down the blind, and, turning once more, presented the familiar figure of Mr. Vincent Lacour. “This is really awfully kind of you, Miss Warren,” were his words, as he came forward to shake hands. He spoke with subdued voice, and his demeanour was not quite as self-possessed as usual. “I was beset with doubts--whether you had my note safely, whether you could manage to be here alone, whether you would admit me at all. I know it is an unwarrantable step on my part, but I was bound to see you once more, and see you alone. I’m leaving England in a few days, so I’m not likely to annoy you after this.” He had expressive eyes, and put much into them, as he gazed at the girl after speaking thus. Ada’s hands hung before her, nervously clasped, with the backs together. “I of course ought not to consent to an interview of this kind,” she said coldly. “Mrs. Clarendon would be much displeased--would altogether misunderstand it. I hope you will say what you wish to very quickly.” “Are we safe from disturbance?” he asked. “Do people come in?” “No one will come in.” He uttered a sound of satisfaction.