So she buttered the toast, and they ate it like children, bite and bite about, and Evelyn chivied bacon round the plate, and fed now himself and now her. The extra cup lingered on its way, and one cup did for them, and all this to Madge was a sort of rehearsal of what would be. And it was a rehearsal of the best possible. For what if his gaiety, his interest in this new game was but a last flare-up? He could not feel this childish excitement in the entrancing sport of feeding each other, always. Besides, even if he did, she herself did not know all yet. What horror perhaps awaited her under the bandages of that swathed face? Tender and womanly and loving as she was, she could not help wondering as to that. She had put up her hand for guidance and leading; she wanted nothing else. But she wanted to be led very strongly, very firmly. Then when breakfast was done, Evelyn went straight back to this identification game. A match-box was easy, because of its rough sides, a cigarette could not be a pencil, because of its smell. "And----" "Oh, the letter!" he said. "Dear, it's quite impossible," said Madge. "I'll tell you whom it is from with pleasure; in fact I meant to talk to you about it. I brought it up here for that purpose, to read it to you----" But he interrupted again, rather peevishly. "Ah, that's finished then," he said, dropping the envelope. "What nonsense; you can't guess," said she. "It's no question of guessing. You brought a letter in with you, and didn't mention it. You knew I shouldn't--see. You were meaning to talk about it afterwards. Well, it's either the Hermit or Philip. Besides, if the Hermit wrote to you, you would have told me. No, it's Philip." This was no more than ordinary reason could have done. "What does he say?" asked Evelyn in a harsh, dry tone. "Does he say he is very sorry, and it serves us right? That is the correct attitude, I should think." Madge put a cigarette in his lips. "Won't you smoke?" she asked. "No, it doesn't taste. It's like smoking in a tunnel. About Philip now?" "He doesn't take the correct attitude," said she. "If he had, how could I have wanted to talk to you about him? He wants to help us, Evelyn. And he will arrive here to-night, unless we stop him on his way at Inverness or Golspie." The corners of his mouth were compressed; she knew he was frowning. "Philip?" he said. "That isn't Philip." "It wasn't perhaps," said Madge, "but it is, I think. Things have happened--Mr. Merivale is dead. Philip was there." "Dead?" he asked. "Yes; I only know about it from Philip. Oh, yes, you have guessed right. I can only tell you what he said. Mr. Merivale died because--because sorrow, pain were revealed to him. He died very suddenly--that I gather, and he died terribly, somehow. I know no more than what I tell you." Evelyn was silent a little.