The maid fell behind. Andrew and his companion, who seemed smaller and slimmer than ever by his side, started on their tortuous way, here and there turning to the right and to the left to follow the course of some tidal stream, or avoid the swampy places. The faint odour of wild lavender was mingled with the brackish scent of the sea. The ground was soft and spongy beneath their feet, and a breeze as soft as a caress blew in their faces. Up before them always, gaunt and bare, surrounded by its belts of weather-stricken trees, stood the Red Hall. Andrew looked toward it gloomily. "Do you wonder," he asked, "that a man is sometimes depressed who is born the heir to a house like that, and to fortunes very similar?" "Are you poor?" she asked him. "I thought perhaps you were, as your brother tried to make love to me." He frowned impatiently at her words. "For Heaven's sake, child," he said, "don't be so cynical! Don't fancy that every kind word that is spoken to you is spoken for your wealth. There are sycophants enough in the world, Heaven knows, but there are men there as well. Give a few the credit of being honest. Try and remember that you are--" He looked at her and away again toward the sea. "That you are," he repeated, "young enough and attractive enough to win kind words for your own sake." "Then," she whispered, leaning towards him, "I do not think that I am very fortunate." "Why not?" he asked. "Because," she answered, "one person who might say kind things to me, and whom my money would never influence a little bit in the world, does not say them." "Are you sure," he asked, "that you believe that there is any one in the world who would be content to take you without a penny?" She shook her head. "Not that," she said sadly. "I am not what you call conceited enough for that, but I would like to believe that I might have a kind word or two on my own account." She tried hard to see his face, but he kept it steadfastly turned away. She sighed. Only a few yards behind the maid was walking. "Mr. Andrew," she said, "it was you whom I meant. Won't you say something nice to me for my own sake?" They were nearing the Hall now, and it seemed natural enough that he should hold her hand for a minute in his. "I will tell you," he said quietly, "that your coming has been a pleasure, and your going will be a pain, and I will tell you that you have left an empty place that no one else can fill. You have made what our people here call the witch music upon the marshes for me, so that I shall never walk here again as long as I live without hearing it and thinking of you." "Is that all?" she whispered. He pretended not to hear her. "I am nearly double your age," he said, "and I have lived an idle, perhaps a worthless, life. I have done no harm. My talents, if I have any, have certainly been buried. If I had met you out in the world, your world, well, I might have taught myself to forget--"