"Beautiful, but cold, distant, really disheartening!" "You talk just as much nonsense as Mrs. Danford or Mr. Carriston." "Now let me make the comparison! Full face, please!" "You might be going to paint my picture. Now are you content?" "I'm more or less pacified--for the moment." Stephen Aikenhead lounged across the lawn, pipe in mouth. He noticed the two and shook his shaggy head--marking, questioning, finding it all very natural, seeing the trouble it might bring, without a formula to try it by--unless, here too, things were in solution. She laughed lightly. "You must be careful with me, Mr. Ledstone. Remember I'm not used to flattery!" "The things you have been used to! Good heavens!" "I dare say I exaggerate." Delicately she asked for more pity, more approval. "I don't believe you do. I believe there are worse things--things you can't speak of." It will be seen that by now--ten days since Winnie's arrival--the famous promise had been pitched most completely overboard. "Oh, I don't think so, really I don't. Isn't it a pretty sky, Mr. Ledstone?" "Indeed it is, and a pretty world too, Mrs. Maxon. Haven't you found it so?" "Why will you go on talking about me?" "Mayn't I talk about the thing I'm thinking about? How can I help it?" Her smile, indulgent to him, pleaded for herself also. "It is horribly hard not to, isn't it? That's why I've told all about it, I suppose." Stephen Aikenhead, after the shake of his head, had drifted into the house, seeking a fresh fill for his pipe. He found the evening post in and, having nothing in the world else to do, brought out a letter to Mrs. Maxon. "For you," he said, making a sudden and somewhat disconcerting appearance at her elbow. He puffed steadily, holding the letter out to Winnie, while he looked at his friend Godfrey with a kindly if quizzical regard. "Good gracious, Stephen!" "Well, I always like letters worth a 'Good gracious,' Winnie." "Hobart Gaynor's coming here to-morrow." "Don't know the gentleman. Friend of yours? Very glad to see him." "Coming from--from Cyril!" "Oh!" The little word was significantly drawn out. "That's another pair of shoes!" it seemed to say. She sat up straight, and let her feet down to the ground. "To make me go back, I suppose!" "You could hardly expect him not to have a shot at it--Cyril, I mean." Her eyes had been turned up to Stephen. In lowering them to her letter again, she caught in transit Godfrey Ledstone's regard. For a second or two the encounter lasted. She swished her skirt round--over an ankle heedlessly exposed by her quick movement. Her glance fell to the letter. Godfrey's remained on her face--as well she knew. "I must see Hobart, but I won't go back. I won't, Stephen." "All right, my dear. Stay here--the longer, the better for us. Shall I wire Gaynor to come?" "Will you?"