As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in the dog-cart to lunch at Monk’s Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre on her way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of Henry. This programme she carried out, only stopping long enough at the inn, however, to run to her brother’s room for a minute while the cart waited at the door. Here she discovered him propped up with pillows, while by his side was seated Joan, engaged in reading, to him, and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for poetry in the abstract Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale of Paolo and Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very much in sympathy. “Good morning, Henry,” said Ellen. “Good gracious, my dear! what are you doing?” “Good morning, Ellen,” he answered. “I am enjoying myself listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very nicely indeed.” Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood book in hand. “I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially so early in the morning,” she said, glancing round, “when I see that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the Levingers. Have you any message for them?” “Nothing particular,” he said precisely, and with a slight hardening of his face, “except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.” “Very well, then; I will go on, as I don’t want to keep the mare standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.” And she went without waiting for an answer. “I wished to ask her how my father was,” said Henry, “but she never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, Joan.” “No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don’t think that I will read any more poetry.” “Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years since I have seen a line of Lancelot and Elaine.” And he looked at her, waiting for an answer. “Because,” blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, “because Miss Graves doesn’t wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is right, and it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say that the room wasn’t dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it yourself after aunt left.” “My dear girl, don’t distress yourself,” Henry answered, with more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. “I really am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise on the _Times._”