"’I shall spend a couple of days in Paris. Lady Aspasia has implored me to give her my opinion upon some old furniture. I propose, however, to send Muhammed Saif-u-din—my native secretary, you remember—straight to you at Saltwoods. He has some important work to finish for me, and Jani will know how to look after him. He will arrive about the evening of the tenth.’ That’s to-morrow," said the girl, breaking off. "Lord, I’m glad you’re here, Major Bethune! Gracious! This old place is creepy enough without having a black man wandering about the passages and the orchards.... Fancy us, all alone in the middle of the downs! He might cut all our throats, and nobody know anything, till the baker came. I do think our Runkle might keep his own blackamoors to himself." Rosamond looked indifferent. She drummed the table softly with her fingers, as if in protest against the waste of time. Bethune still stood without speaking. His attitude had not changed a fraction, neither had his brooding face. Aspasia thought that she could have flung the inkpot at him with much satisfaction. "That’s all," she concluded drily; "Runkle is his dear wife’s devoted husband." She threw a hard emphasis on the words. Rosamond suddenly paled and set her lips close. "Oh yes! there’s a postscript; he wants an answer immediately to Claridge’s—and who do you think was their fellow traveller? Dr. Châtelard—he’s to be at Melbury, too. It’s all fish that comes to Lady Aspasia’s net—evidently. Well?" Still there was silence. It was a clear day. A shaft of wintry sunshine pierced in between the ivy sprays, and caught the girl as she sat; her crisp aureole of hair seemed palely afire; sparks of the same faint yellow flame enkindled her eyes, and even the ends of her long eyelashes. She sat stiff and stern, her face was somewhat pallid. Bethune glanced at her suddenly. The sky was blue through the little panes beyond: he thought she made a quaintly pretty picture. "Well!" repeated Miss Cuningham, "you had better wire to Runkle, I think." Lady Gerardine rose from her seat with so swift a movement that, startled, Baby jumped from her perch. The elder woman was passion white; her nostrils were dilated. "Leave me, Aspasia," she said, pointing to the door with a gesture at once dignified and incensed. "You disturb me." "Well, I never!" exclaimed the ill-used girl. She checked herself suddenly and made a rush for the passage; if she spoke another word the tears would certainly come, and that (she thought) would be the last straw. Quick as she was, Bethune was before her. He opened the door for her to pass. His air of detachment, the banality of the courtesy, seemed to her an insult; she flung a look of scathing reproach at him as she flounced by.