“I suppose that Captain Trimblett is right,” said Joan, who had been watching him closely; “and I’ll go when you like.” Her father came from the window. “Yes,” he said, and stood looking at her. “I am going out a little way,” said Joan, suddenly. Hartley started, and glanced instinctively at the clock. “Yes,” he said again. His daughter went upstairs to dress, and did her best to work up a little resentment against being turned out of her home to avoid a caller whom she told herself repeatedly she had no wish to see. Her reflections were cut short by remembering that time was passing, and that Mr. Vyner’s punctuality, in the matter of these calls, was of a nature to which the office was a stranger. She put on her hat and, running downstairs, opened the door and went out. At the gate she paused, and, glancing right and left, saw Robert Vyner approaching. He bowed and quickened his pace. “Father is indoors,” she said with a friendly smile, as she shook hands. “It’s a sin to be indoors an evening like this,” said Robert, readily. “Are you going for a walk?” “A little way; I am going to see a friend,” said Joan. “Good-by.” “Good-by,” said Mr. Vyner, and turned in at the gate, while Joan, a little surprised at his docility, proceeded on her way. She walked slowly, trying, in the interests of truth, to think of some acquaintance to call upon. Then she heard footsteps behind, gradually gaining upon her. “I really think I’m the most forgetful man in Salthaven,” said Mr. Robert Vyner, in tones of grave annoyance, as he ranged alongside. “I came all this way to show your father a book on dahlias, and now I find I’ve left it at the office. What’s a good thing for a bad memory?” “Punish yourself by running all the way, I should think,” replied Joan. “It might make you less forgetful next time.” Mr. Vyner became thoughtful, not to say grave. “I don’t know so much about running,” he said, slowly. “I’ve had an idea for some time past that my heart is a little bit affected.” Joan turned to him swiftly. “I’m so sorry,” she faltered. “I had no idea; and the other night you were rolling the grass. Why didn’t you speak of it before?” Her anxiety was so genuine that Mr. Vyner had the grace to feel a little bit ashamed of himself. “When I say that my heart is affected, I don’t mean in the way of—of disease,” he murmured. “Is it weak?” inquired the girl. Mr. Vyner shook his head. “Well, what is the matter with it?” Mr. Vyner sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, slowly. “It is not of long standing; I only noticed it a little while ago. The first time I had an attack I was sitting in my office—working. Let me see. I think it was the day you came in there to see your father. Yes, I am sure it was.” Miss Hartley walked on, looking straight before her. “Since then,” pursued Mr. Vyner, in the mournful tones suited to the subject, “it has got gradually worse. Sometimes it is in my mouth; sometimes—if I feel that I have offended anybody—it is in my boots.”