He roused himself to take part in the conversation, and for the rest of the evening was careful not to relapse into silence, but the whole thing was like a dream, a dull, long-drawn-out dream which had no connection with life. He was moving as in a dream, speaking with forced, unnatural words, but presently he would awake. All day long the sense of waiting was upon him, of doing time until a a certain period was reached. If this sort of thing were to continue, it would be unbearable, but it would not continue. There was a limit to his endurance. In a few days, in a week at longest, Cassandra would be home again, and they would meet! The sense of waiting grew stronger... CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A CROWDED HOUR. An interminable period seemed to elapse before Peignton heard the news for which he was waiting. He had received one or two post-card bulletins from Grizel, and knew that the shock of the accident had left no lasting effect on Cassandra, but it was not until the morning of the tenth day that he heard of her arrival at the Court. His informant was a workman on the place, who mentioned having seen her ladyship driving, as a proof of that more interesting event, the Squire's return. The natural enquiry, "How did she look?" could, of course, not be asked under the circumstances, but Peignton knew that it would be impossible to exist for another twenty-four hours without settling that question for himself. If he had been asked what plans were in his mind he would have replied that he had none, yet deeply, subconsciously, during every one of those long ten days a plan had been shaping. When he left the house after lunch that afternoon, he knew exactly where he was going, and although he might delude himself that he was following a sudden impulse, it would have been in just that direction that he would have directed his steps on any one of the previous days. Half an hour's brisk walking brought him to the northern gate leading into the Squire's grounds. It was the farthest entrance from the house, but Peignton had no intention of visiting the house. The gate was but a short distance from the secluded summer-house in which Cassandra had given him tea on the afternoon on which they had run away from the incursion of afternoon callers, and it was to the summer-house that he was bound. Cassandra would be there. He knew it as certainly as though he had had her written word of promise, and he knew also that she would be awaiting his arrival. Such knowledge is not to be accounted for in ordinary terms, nor is it given to all, but those who have once heard the voice recognise and obey.