The church was cold and dark after the bright sunshine in the fields. In the church she remembered Gladys, and forgot to listen to the sermon. She and the doctor walked back together and quarrelled all the way. It was that still, impossible hour of Sunday afternoon when the drowsiness of after lunch and the distance of five-o’clock tea combine to make inaction of one sort or another absolutely essential. Sir Arthur Dallerton, however, was uncomfortably wide awake. His protracted conversation with his charming guest contributed not a little to the unnatural keenness of his feelings, and with Sir Arthur Dallerton to feel keenly was to be in more or less of a bad temper. He saw Muriel out of his smoking-room window, and beckoned to her to come in. “What are you doing, Muriel,” he asked severely, “at this time of the afternoon?” “Everybody is going out on the river after tea, so I was seeing about the boats,” she said. “That, Muriel, is the business of the gardener.” “I like minding the gardener’s business,” said Muriel smiling. “My dear,” said her uncle gravely, “If you would leave the gardener’s business alone, and attend a little more to your own, I should be better pleased.” “What do you mean, uncle?” the girl asked, sitting down opposite him with her wide-open, unembarrassed eyes. “Of course I know that it makes no difference to you what I wish—that I take for granted to begin with.” She moved her head impatiently; she hated the way he had of opening any discussion with injured personalities. He waited for a protest, and not hearing one he continued with increased vehemence. “You are now twenty-seven. You have had plenty of opportunities to settle down in life. I have never attempted to force your hand——” A look in the girl’s eyes suggested the prudence of this course. “I must say I have been uncommonly generous in overlooking your extraordinary schemes, but I never dreamed they excluded marriage. May I ask, Muriel—I think I have a right to know—if all my hopes are to be in vain simply through the obstinacy of an untrained, selfish girl? Do you, Muriel—I insist upon knowing this—intend to marry?” “I am sorry you insist, uncle,” said Muriel very quietly, though two bright spots of angry color burned in her cheeks, “because I am afraid I can give you no satisfactory answer to your hopes. It is very improbable—if you really wish to know—that I shall ever marry.” “What about Jack Hurstly?” “I do not know to what you refer.” “I thought your objection to him was that he didn’t stick to his profession. He’s sticking to it fast enough now.” Muriel winced. “And,” he continued with more hope of success, “he’ll probably get potted by a native, and then perhaps you’ll be satisfied. You women who talk the most about cruelty are always the ones to send us poor devils to our graves.”