It was a sleepy afternoon, even up here among the hills, and Jenny had not read many pages before she became aware of it. The Rectory garden was an almost perfect place for a small doze; the yews about her made a grateful shade, and the limes behind them even further cooled the air, and, when the breeze awoke, as one talking in his sleep, the sound about her was as of gentle rain. The air was bright and dusty with insects; from the limes overhead, the geranium beds, and the orchard fifty yards away, came the steady murmur of bees and flies. Jenny woke up twenty minutes later with a sudden start, and saw someone standing almost over her. She threw her feet down, still bewildered by the sudden change and the glare on which she opened her eyes, and perceived that it was Jack Kirkby, looking very dusty and hot. "I am so sorry," said Jack apologetically, "but I was told you were out here." She did not know Jack very well, though she had known him a long time. She looked upon him as a pleasant sort of boy whom she occasionally met at lawn-tennis parties and flower shows, and things like that, and she knew perfectly how to talk to young men. "How nice of you to came over," she said. "Did you bicycle? Have something to drink?" She made room for him on the seat and held out her second cigarette. "It's your last," said Jack. "I've lots more in the house." She watched him as he lit it, and as the last shreds of sleep rolled away, put the obvious question. "You've news of Frank?" Jack threw away the match and drew two or three draughts of smoke before answering. "Yes," he said. "Where is he?" "He gave an address at York, though he wasn't there when he wrote. I sent your letter on there yesterday." "Oh I did he give any account of himself?" Jack looked at her. "Well, he did. I've come about that. It's not very pleasant." "Is he ill?" asked Jenny sharply. "Oh, no; not at all; at least, he didn't say so." "What's the matter, then?" Jack fumbled in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter, which he held a moment before unfolding. "I think you'd better read what he says, Miss Launton. It isn't pleasant, but it's all over now. I thought I'd better tell you that first." She held out her hand without speaking. Jack gave it her, and addressed himself carefully to his cigarette. He didn't like this kind of thing at all, he wished Frank wouldn't give him unpleasant commissions. But, of course, it had to be done. He looked out at the lawn and the sleepy house, but was aware of nothing except the girl beside him in her white dress and the letter in her hands. When she had finished it, she turned back and read it again. Then she remained perfectly still, with the letter held on her knee. "Poor, dear old boy!" she said suddenly and quietly.