I felt as if some hard substance had struck me violently in the face. But I managed to bring out the words: "Is he going, do you think?" "No doubt he will go," she said. * * * * * Already I seemed to have lost him as utterly as though he had died. Yet with none of that sad comfort my mother had spoken of--the comfort of knowing one's possession safe beyond all risk of loss or tarnishing. I had never been on a yacht. I had never seen a yacht. Yet I could see Eric on the _Nautch Girl_. And Lady Barbara! Her mother's words came back: "Very little is done at balls." Very much, the story-books had told me, was done by throwing people together on a long voyage. My own heart told me the same. Yes, I had lost him. And I had lost myself. * * * * * The next day was Sunday. In the morning Hermione came to carry Bettina off for their last day together. I had to promise that, if Ranny should come to Duncombe, I would send for Betty. . . . . . As I sat with my mother, that same afternoon, the door opened, and there was the maid bringing in Mr. Annan. I think I scarcely spoke or moved. It was my mother who said: "I thought you would come to say good-bye." "'Good-bye'?" Then, with unusual _brusquerie_ where my mother was concerned, he added: "When _I_ come to see people, what I say is, 'How do you do?'" "But aren't you going away to-morrow?" "Why should I?" "Why, to catch the _Nautch Girl_." "I can't think of a girl I should so little care to catch." And he wasn't going at all! Had never contemplated it for a moment! The weight of the world fell off my shoulders. And for nearly five minutes of a joy almost too great to be borne, I believed that it was because of me he wasn't going. Then he told my mother it was because of his work. And so it was that, unconsciously, he made good the excuse I had offered for his bolting off the afternoon I told him my secret. He seemed to have forgotten that episode. At least, he behaved as though it had never happened. He laughed a little over his interview with her ladyship. "Very determined individual, Lady Helmstone." He had told her, finally, that he hadn't time even to go to his sister's wedding. He had not thought it necessary, he said to add that he wouldn't have gone to his sister's wedding however much time he had. Of course, my mother asked why such unbrotherly behaviour? He told us that he didn't approve of the marriage. There was nothing against the man's character. He was a "Writer to the Signet," which seemed in Scotland to mean a sort of barrister. I said "Writer to the Signet" sounded much finer than "barrister." I was told that Maggie Annan could not be expected to live on a fine sound. And that was about all they would have. This particular "Writer to the Signet" was poor. "Oh, poorer than poor!" I didn't like his way of saying that.