"I'll come too. Directly I've drunk my coffee." As Winnie walked off he exchanged a glance with his father. They had had a confidential little talk at the casino the evening before, in which Winnie's behaviour was the subject of some puzzled comment. This invitation to the garden looked more promising. Mrs. Lenoir was busy reading a letter. Winnie had read one letter too--from Hobart Gaynor, telling her all she needed to know, and referring her to a certain page of her paper. Yes, there it was--very short, matter-of-fact, and hard. Well, what else should it be? Only it seemed oddly to reproduce Cyril Maxon himself. The report sounded as if his exact words, nay, his very tones, had been caught; they seemed to echo in her ears; she almost heard him saying it all. And what more appropriate, what so inevitable, an ending could there be to Cyril's utterances than the words which closed this brief record--'Judgment accordingly'? Those words might always have been written at the end of Cyril's remarks. 'Judgment accordingly.' It seemed to sum up, as well as to close, the story of her relations with him. From the beginning right through to this, the end, on her and her works--on all she did and was--there had been 'Judgment accordingly.' She let the copy of the _Times_ fall on her lap, and sat idle--waiting for Bertie Merriam, yet not thinking much of him. The figure of 'Dolly' shuffled into view. The odd little man was smoking a cigarette, and, in the intervals of puffing, was apparently talking to himself in a cheerful and animated way--no sounds, but the lips moved quickly. As he passed, Winnie hailed him. "Had your mail, Mr. Wigram?" He stopped. "I've had good news, Miss Wilson--good news from home. They've raised my salary." "Oh, I am glad, Mr. Wigram." "A twenty-pound rise, Miss Wilson. Well, I've done fifteen years. But still it's liberal." He seemed to swell a little. "And it's a recognition. I value it as a recognition." The transient swelling subsided. "And it'll help," he ended soberly. "Shall you be able to tell the truth to any greater extent, Mr. Wigram?" "Oh, I think not, I think not. I--I hadn't thought of it from that point of view, Miss Wilson." "I've had no rise in my income, but I'm going to do it." He was not really listening. He gave a feeble cackle of a laugh. "I'm just making a few calculations, Miss Wilson." On he went, apportioning every penny of that hard-earned increase of twenty pounds per annum. Valuable--but not enough to enable him to teach true history. Major Merriam sauntered towards her with his cigar. He was really rather eager, but he did not look it. The invitation might be merely a tardy apology for the snubs of yesterday. "May I sit down by you?" "Please do. Have you seen the _Times_?" "I looked through the lot of them." "Have you seen this one--the 26th?" She held up her copy. "I suppose I have. I had a run through them all." "Read that." Her finger indicated the report.