And then he began to wonder who the girl was that was so close to him, and whether she was one of his cousin's guests. After a time she moved away, and he caught glimpses of her white gown through the shrubbery path as she wended her way back to the house. He lay on in the boat. He was tired of the strenuous life he had lived in town, and the afternoon was one that invited sleep. An hour later he woke up with a start. Lady Fielding's merry laugh as she discovered his whereabouts, and the chaff of two of her young sisters, made him leap up in a moment, and for the time forget his trouble. When dinner-time came, he wondered if he would see the owner of that passionate voice. He asked his cousin if any of her guests had been left at home that afternoon. "Yes," she answered promptly, "Sidney Urquhart. She left by the five o'clock train. Have you never met her? She's a dear girl, the life of any house-party; but she was summoned home unexpectedly. Her uncle was ill. She would have gone with us otherwise. Did you see anything of her?" "No. I went straight down to the boat when I was told you were out." Lady Fielding was alone with him in the drawing-room as they talked; the other guests were still in their rooms. Her face grew grave as she said almost in a whisper: "Oh, Randolph, I am so horrified! What an awful blow for you!" He winced as if he had been struck. "Yes; it has hit me hard; but spare me any words of sympathy, or I shall flee back to town." "Well, I always think that when a girl behaves like that it is a merciful escape. I will not speak of it again. You can trust me." By neither word nor look did Randolph Neville show to the world at large what he felt at this juncture of his life. But cynicism and bitterness tinged his speech; he had been an easy-tempered, optimistic man; now he began to develop critical faculties, and certain hard lines imprinted themselves about his lips. A week of boating with his cousin's guests was enough for him. "I am going away," he informed her one morning when she was walking round her well-ordered garden with him and asking his advice about certain alterations she wished to make in the autumn. "Not back to town? It is August; not a soul will be there." "If I thought that, I would return to-morrow. I want more solitude—" "Than I can give you here? Oh, I quite understand, but I don't believe it will be good for you. What wilds will hold you?" "I'm going to look up Monica Pembroke." "Good heavens! You will rusticate with a vengeance! I hear she's never out of an apron and nailed boots. But she makes her farm prosper, which is something in these days. Monnie is a good woman spoiled. Has she that imp of a nephew with her still?" "I believe so, and Aunt Dannie." Lady Fielding shrugged her shoulders. "If you prefer their company to mine, I have nothing more to say."