It was the doctor after all who rowed out to their assistance and took Muriel home after tea across the fields. Muriel was desperate. Jack had found means to say to her that he did not in the least believe her, and that he was not going to give her up. Gladys had found means of very pointedly, though with exquisite intangibility, expressing a state of mind anything but pleasant to her friend. The constant flow of bright, good-natured chaff, the utterly superficial, pleasant brightness of the boating party, gave Muriel a feeling of weariness and age. She felt glad to be with the doctor. He at least left her alone and seemed contented to talk or to be silent in an easy, effortless way. Perhaps it was because in his profession a man “learns to do his watching without its showing pain.” He talked chiefly about his sister, and when they got home advised her in an off-hand manner “to go and lie down.” “But I am not tired,” she cried, half vexed. “No,” he replied soothingly; “still you know it’s a warm afternoon; you would find it restful.” Muriel smiled submissively. “To tell the truth,” she said, “I think perhaps I am a bit tired,” and she went upstairs. An hour afterwards there came a soft knock at the door and Cynthia Grant came in. “They told me you had a headache,” she said apologetically, “and I came to see if I could do anything for you.” “It’s very kind of you,” said Muriel gratefully; “but do come and sit down. My headache was only an excuse for laziness, and it would do it good to be talked to.” Cynthia sat down near the sofa, and after a little conversation on general subjects, began in abrupt, curt tones to tell Muriel the story of her life.