"His name is Herr Franz Lippheim," said Karen, gravely. "He is a young musician." "Herr Franz Lippheim," Gregory repeated, with an irritation glad to wreak itself on this sudden object presented opportunely. "How could you have been imagined as marrying someone called Lippheim?" "Why not, pray?" "Is he a German Jew?" Gregory inquired after a moment. "He is, indeed, of Joachim's nationality," Karen answered, in a voice from which the tears were gone. They walked on, side by side, the estrangement cutting deep between their new-won nearness. Yet in the estrangement was an intimacy deeper than that of the merely blissful state. They seemed in the last miserable half hour to have advanced by years their knowledge of each other. Mrs. Talcott and tea were waiting for them in the morning-room. The old woman fixed her eyes upon each face in turn and then gave her attention to her tea-pot. "I am sorry, Mrs. Talcott, that we are so late," Karen said. Her composure was kept only by an effort that gave to her tones a stately conventionality. "Don't mention it," said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm only just in myself." "Has it not been a beautiful afternoon?" Karen continued. "What have you been doing in the garden, Mrs. Talcott?" "I sowed a big bed of mignonette down by the arbour, and Mitchell and I set out a good lot of plants." Mrs. Talcott made her replies to the questions that Karen continued to ask, in an even voice in which Gregory, who kept his dismal eyes upon her, detected a melancholy patience. Mrs. Talcott must perceive his state to be already one of "hanging on." Of her sympathy he was, at all events, assured. She showed it by rising as soon as he and Karen had drunk their tea. "I've got some more things to do," she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Jardine. Are you coming over to-morrow?" "No," said Gregory taking Mrs. Talcott's hand. "My holiday is over. I shall be going back to town to-morrow." Mrs. Talcott looked into his eyes. "Well, that's too bad," she observed. "Isn't it? I'd far rather stay here, I can assure you," said Gregory. "We'll miss you, I guess," said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm very glad to have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." "And I of making yours." Mrs. Talcott departed and Gregory turned to Karen. She was standing near the window, looking at him. "We must say good-bye, too, I suppose," said Gregory, mastering his grief. "You will give me your guardian's address so that I can write to her at once?" Her face had worn the aspect of a grey, passive sheet of water; a radiant pallor now seemed struck from its dulled surface. "You are going to write to Tante?" she said. "Isn't that the next step?" Gregory asked. "You will write, too, won't you? Or is it part of my ordeal that I'm to plead my cause alone?"