"You've not gone in for it!" "No." "I would sometimes, if I were you. 'All work and no play,' you know—" "Yes." "What's the matter to-day?" This question came abruptly. The friends had been together since half-past two, and the above is a fair sample of the conversation which had taken place. "Nothing," Nigel said—adding, "at least nothing in particular." "Only everything in general. That's as bad." "No. It's all right." "Sure? You seem out of sorts somehow." Nigel rowed on in silence. The lithe muscular figure found evident pleasure in the exertion, moving with careless ease. There was no lack of good health apparent in the bronze face; but the immovable gravity differed much from Nigel's old light-heartedness. Malcolm noticed it more than usually this day. He had started in high spirits himself, ready for any amount of gaiety, and he found scant response. No answering fun was to be got out of his serious companion. "What's the matter, old fellow?" he inquired again. "I don't want to be a bother, but really one can't help noticing. What are you thinking about?" "Varieties," was the answer. "When are you coming to see us again?" "I don't know. Some day, perhaps." "You are busy now, of course. Still, if Ethel didn't know you so well she might be affronted." Malcolm spoke thoughtlessly, and the next moment was vexed with himself. He did not understand the exact position of affairs. Nigel's engagement to Fulvia, after years of apparent devotion to Ethel, had been a sore perplexity to him; but he did not know that there were reasons for Nigel's action which had not been told to him, yet which Ethel counted to have weight; and he had strong trust in his friend. Moreover, he could see, as every one could see, that Nigel was not happy. Malcolm's private belief was that Nigel cared too little for Fulvia, too much for Ethel; therefore, he regretted his own hasty words. "How is Ethel?" asked Nigel, speaking with a manifest effort. "Not so strong as she ought to be. We hoped more from Wales." The two rowed on again, more slowly than before; or rather Nigel rowed, Malcolm having taken to steering. Nigel was buried in thought. "We shall have to think of a change to some more bracing place, if she doesn't look up soon," observed Malcolm. "I don't like to see her as she is now." A shrill scream rang out suddenly. "What's that?" burst from both. "Where from?" exclaimed Malcolm. "Ahead!" And Nigel worked at the oars with vigour. "Sure? I thought—" "Yes! Listen!" But no second cry followed the first. "Nigel, you didn't know that voice? I had a fancy—" Nigel uttered one word, "Fulvia." He had lost colour, but he spoke calmly, redoubling his exertions. The boat shot swiftly up stream. "Let me take an oar." Malcolm started half up, but Nigel's answer was imperative— "No; keep still. Can't wait for that."