Ended the Dartmoor drama! Gone Sir Archibald! Vanished the motor! Gone too, dear Virginia and Mrs. Pomeroy! only Mrs. MacGill and I are left! He went on Wednesday, the Pomeroys on Thursday, and I now await events. Virginia tells me she has taken her mother to Torquay, but that is a wide word! _Saturday_ I thought it would be so: a week without her was enough. Yesterday Sir Archibald, or what used to be Sir Archibald, appeared at the inn again. But what a change was here! Shall I put down our conversation without comment? _Cecilia._ So you have come back, Sir Archibald? _Sir A._ Yes. _Cecilia._ I hope you had a pleasant run to town, or wherever you went. _Sir A._ Beastly. _Cecilia._ What? Did the motor break down, or the weather? _Sir A._ Neither. _Cecilia._ What was wrong, then? _Sir A._ Everything. (Then suddenly) Where have the Pomeroys gone to, Miss Evesham? _Cecilia._ To Torquay, I understand. _Sir A._ Do you know their address? _Cecilia._ I do not. I suppose they will be at one of the hotels. _Sir A._ You are making fun of me. Tell me where they are. I am in earnest. _Cecilia._ So am I. I do not know their address. He started up, wrung my hand without a word, and hurried out of the room. I looked after him in the hall, but he was so intent on the Torquay Guide that he never noticed me. He steamed off Torquay-wards half an hour later. I have had a pleasant chat with Mr. Willoughby, who appeared this afternoon. He looks at life and all things much as I do. He is a distinct relief from Mrs. MacGill, a distinct relief; and though he has made no special reputation as yet, he is bound to succeed, for he has decided talent. VIII MRS. MACGILL My words have taken effect; it is often disagreeable to have to give unasked advice, but one should always do it. Sir Archibald has gone. It is a pleasant thought that any simple words of mine may have been the means of saving the young man from that designing person. She conceals her disappointment as well as she can, and is doing her best to look as if nothing had happened in one way or another; but I can see below the surface of that new hat. She has taken her mother off to Torquay for a few days. It is a large town seemingly, though I have heard that there are no men there; but as the guide-book says the population is twenty-five thousand, that is probably an exaggeration. However, Miss Pomeroy won't stay long in Torquay in that case, but will return to New York, where she would fain make us believe they are as plentiful as in a harem. They cannot all be millionaires at least, for she says that many American writers live on what they make by their books. Cecilia would like to stay on here, I think. She has been up to the top of a quarry looking at gorse along with that so-called artist, Mr. Willoughby. Miss Pomeroy has infected her, I am afraid, and the bad example is telling, even at that age. * * * * *