She paused, and I took occasion to say: “I think we’re all much indebted to you—and myself most of all. Any other attitude on your part would have upset an arrangement which I have come to have very much at heart. I’m grateful to you, Nina.” “You know a great deal—indeed, you probably know pretty well everything—that has happened between Lucinda and me. You wouldn’t defend all that she did; I don’t defend all I did. When I’m challenged, I fight, and I suppose Jonathan Frost’s daughter isn’t dainty as to her weapons—that’s your point of view about me, anyhow, isn’t it? You’ve always been in her camp. You’ve always been a critic of me.” “Really I’ve regretted the whole—er—difficulty and—well, difference, very much.” “You’ve laughed at it even more than you’ve regretted it, I think,” she remarked drily. “But I’ve liked you better than you’ve liked me—though you did laugh at me—and I’m not going to make things difficult or uncomfortable for you. When I accept a state of things, I accept it without reservation. I don’t want to go on digging pins in.” “If I have ever smiled—as you accuse me of having done—as well as regretted, it was because I saw your qualities as well as hers. The battle was well joined. You’ve both had your defeats and your victories. I should like you to be friends now.” “Yes, I believe you would; that’s why I’m talking like this to you. But”—her voice took on a sudden ring of strong feeling—“it’s impossible. There are such memories between us.” I did not urge the point; it would be useless with her, very likely also with Lucinda. I let it go with a shrug. She sat for a moment in the stately composed silence that so well became her. “It’s probable that we shall divide our time mainly between London, Dundrannan, and Villa San Carlo in future. It’s even likely that if Godfrey settles matters with Eunice Unthank, as I think he will, he’ll take a lease of Briarmount. That would not be disagreeable to you, would it?” “Not the least in the world,” I answered, smiling. “I like them both very much.” She turned to me with a bland and simple sincerity of manner. “The doctor thinks that the air on this coast is too strong for baby.” I seemed to be hearing an official bulletin—or _communiqué_, as for some occult reason—or pure love of jargon—they used to call it. There was no question of a reverse at the hands of the enemy; but climatic conditions rendered further operations undesirable; the withdrawal was being effected voluntarily, in perfect order, and without loss. That the enemy was taking possession of the evacuated territory was a circumstance of no military significance whatever—though, to be sure, it might make some little difference to the inhabitants. “It won’t do to run any risks with that precious boy!” I observed, with an approving smile, and (as I flatter myself) with just the artistic shade of jocosity—as if I were gently chaffing her on a genuine but exaggerated maternal solicitude.