At last he heard Fanny enter the room. There was no mistaking her tread, for he had noticed that she wore tennis shoes. He knew that she could not see him where he sat, and he turned his head towards the door expectantly. Again he heard the tinkle of the tea-things. Then there was silence. Then the urn began to hiss and sing softly, and there was another sort of tinkling. It was clear that Fanny had sat down. She could have no idea that he was sitting outside, as he knew, but he thought she might have taken the trouble to look for him. He listened intently for the sound of her step again, but it did not come, and, oddly enough, his heart began to beat more quickly. But he did not move. He felt a ridiculous determination to wait until she began to be impatient and to move about and look for him. He could not have told whether it were timidity, or nervousness, or ill-temper which kept him nailed to his chair, and just then he would have scorned the idea that it could be love in any shape, though his heart was beating so fast. Suddenly his straining ear caught the soft rustle made by the pages of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. She was calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away--reading while the tea was drawing. How stolid she was, he thought. She was certainly not conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there. For a few moments longer he did not move. Then he felt he wished to see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she was. But if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book even before he entered the room. The verandah had a floor of painted boards,--which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult reason,--and he could not stir a step without being heard. Besides, his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose. All at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily, an angry blush on his young face. He reached the entrance in two strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light. As he had guessed, Fanny was reading. "Oh!" he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her. She did not raise her eyes nor start, being evidently intent upon finishing the sentence she had begun. "I thought you were never coming," she said, absently. He was more hurt than ever by her indifference, and sat down at a little distance, without moving the light chair he had chosen. Fanny reached the foot of the page, put a letter she held into the place, closed the book upon it, and then at last looked up. "Do you like your tea strong or weak?" she enquired in a business-like tone. "Just as it comes--I don't care," answered Lawrence, gloomily. "Then I'll give it to you now. I like mine strong." "It's bad for the nerves." "I haven't any nerves," said Fanny Trehearne, with conviction. "That's curious," observed Lawrence, with fine sarcasm.