Mrs Mallison had been prepared by wire for her daughter's sudden return, and her curiosity was at boiling point as to the reasons thereof. The statement that Lady Cassandra was ill, and Mrs Beverley engaged in nursing, was far too vague to prove satisfying. She wanted to hear what nature of ill, how long an ill, how serious an ill, with details of the premonitory symptoms, and the precise circumstances under which they had developed. She waved the way towards the dining-room, explaining that lunch had been delayed half, an hour for the travellers' benefit. Of course Dane would stay and take pot luck. Mutton haricot and gooseberry fool. "You can tell us all about it over lunch, and afterwards," she added meaningly, "Teresa and you can have a nice quiet afternoon!" Peignton quailed at the prospect, but once again Teresa came to the rescue. "Dane is very tired, mother. We are both tired. He is going straight home to rest. Be sure you _do_ rest, Dane," she added, turning towards him, and holding out her hand. "I shan't expect to see you again until Sunday." "I am quite sure he won't agree to _that_!" Mrs Mallison declared, and continued to protest volubly against Dane's departure, and to sing the praises of the haricot and fool, but her flutters had no power against the inflexibility of Teresa's calm, and finally she realised her defeat, and scurried back to shut the dining-room door, with the obvious intention of giving privacy to a tender farewell. "You are very good to me, Teresa," Dane said. The next second he realised that he was expressing gratitude to his _fiancee_, for giving him a chance of escaping her own society, and the realisation infused an added warmth into his last words. "_Thank_ you, dear." Quite simply and naturally Teresa lifted her arms, and clasped them round his neck. She did not kiss him, but she laid her fresh, cool cheek against his, and said: "I love you, Dane. I shall always be good to you." Peignton went out into the road hating himself because the sound of that "always" had dried up the spring of tenderness. God help him, he wanted nothing of this girl which should last for always! If he were free of her to-day he would remember her all his life with gratitude and affection, but those twining arms chafed him like a chain. Peignton took Teresa at her word, and paid no visit to the Cottage for the rest of the week. He sent down a hamper of flowers, however, with an envelope enclosing a short note written on his thickest paper, which to the maternal eye might give the effect of length. He would not be less careful of Teresa's feelings than she had been of his, and he knew well that to allow three days to pass without visit or message would stamp him in Mrs Mallison's eyes as neglectful and unappreciative. The best flowers which the hothouses afforded were collected to fill that hamper.