Dick departed, but he found no opportunity of following the counsel of his too candid friend. The men dined alone that night, and neither Lady Haigh nor Georgia appeared on the terrace afterwards. The next morning, as there was no change in Sir Dugald’s condition, Lady Haigh ventured, at Georgia’s earnest request, to leave him to the care of Chanda Lal while she presided as usual at the late breakfast. Dick took the place next to her, which he had occupied of late, and secured for himself the first cup of coffee, as he invariably did. “Major North,” said Georgia, shortly, “will you kindly pass me my coffee?” Taken by surprise, Dick did as she asked, and her eyes met his in a defiant glance as she raised the cup to her lips. He read her meaning at once. She would have none of his protection; she preferred, indeed, to run the risk of being poisoned rather than owe immunity from such a fate to him. The realisation of this fact cut him more deeply than anything she had said the day before, and he began to regret the temerity with which he had plunged into the fray, although in talking to Stratford he had scouted the idea of entertaining such a feeling. About an hour later, when Georgia, after careful reconnoitring to make sure that the coast was clear, had settled herself in a shady corner of the terrace to study in peace a work on poisons which she had found among Dr Headlam’s books, she was surprised by the sudden appearance of the man whom she least desired to see. He had evidently been engaged in inspecting the stores in the cellars under the terrace, for the first intimation she had of his vicinity was the sight of him as he came up the steps. “I want to ask you to forgive me for what I said yesterday, Miss Keeling,” he said, standing before her. “Can you forgive yourself?” asked Georgia, quickly. “Not for the way in which I spoke--nor indeed for the things I said, but I think you would look more leniently on them if you realised that it was anxiety for you that prompted them.” “Thank you,” said Georgia, raising her eyebrows, “but I am afraid that my poor feminine mind is scarcely capable of appreciating an anxiety which displays itself in such a marked--I might almost say such an unpleasant way. Perhaps you will kindly understand, after this, that I had rather be without it.” It was undignified, she knew, but she could not resist the temptation to repay him in his own coin. Last night she had been angry and indignant when she realised how much his words had hurt her, and it gave her now a kind of vengeful pleasure to feel that she was hurting him. “You are very cruel,” he said, “but perhaps I deserve it.”