He laughed it off, but her words brought a certain depression with them. He went on to speak of something else. "I have been thinking about you this morning," he said. "If your uncle is going to play golf here, it will be very dull for you. Would you care for my mother to come and see you? She would be delighted, I am sure, for it is dull for her too, and she is fond of young people. If you----" He stopped short She was shaking her head slowly. The old despondency was back in her face. Her eyes were full of trouble. She laid her delicately gloved fingers upon his arm. "My friend," she said, "it is very kind of you to think of it--but it is impossible. I cannot tell you why as I would wish. But at present I do not desire any acquaintances. I must not, in fact, think of it. It would give me great pleasure to know your mother. Only I must not. Believe me that it is impossible." Wolfenden was a little hurt--a good deal mystified. It was a very odd thing. He was not in the least a snob, but he knew that the visit of the Countess of Deringham, whose name was still great in the social world, was not a thing to be refused without grave reasons by a girl in the position of Mr. Sabin's niece. The old question came back to him with an irresistible emphasis. Who were these people? He looked at her furtively. He was an observant man in the small details of a woman's toilette, and he knew that he had never met a girl better turned out than his present companion. The cut of her tailor-made gown was perfection, her gloves and boots could scarcely have come from anywhere but Paris. She carried herself too with a perfect ease and indefinable distinction which could only have come to her by descent. She was a perfect type of the woman of breeding--unrestrained, yet aristocratic to the tips of her finger-nails. He sighed as he looked away from her. "You are a very mysterious young woman," he said, with a forced air of gaiety. "I am afraid that I am," she admitted regretfully. "I can assure you that I am very tired of it. But--it will not last for very much longer." "You are really going away, then?" he asked quickly. "Yes. We shall not be in England much longer." "You are going for good?" he asked. "I mean, to remain away?" "When we go," she said, "it is very doubtful if ever I shall set my foot on English soil again." He drew a quick breath. It was his one chance, then. Her last words must be his excuse for such precipitation. They had scrambled down through an opening in the cliffs, and there was no one else in sight. Some instinct seemed to tell her what was coming. She tried to talk, but she could not. His hand had closed upon hers, and she had not the strength to draw it away. It was so very English this sudden wooing. No one had ever dared to touch her fingers before without first begging permission.