Yes, it was chilly on these upland downs. She put her hat on. “Just this,” she said. “I met Frank half an hour ago. He gave me Martin’s note. I did not expect to see him. As far as I am concerned it was quite accidental. I had no idea he was here. I had promised you not to see him. That I could not help.” She stopped, drew a long breath, and went on. “I suppose I could have helped the rest,” she said. “I suppose it was that I did not choose to help it. He stood aside for me to pass. But--but I did not pass. I went to him. I let him kiss me. He stood there with me. I thought I could not help it. Indeed, I thought that.” For a moment Mr. Challoner’s hardness, his involuntary condemnation of weakness of any sort, of failure to keep a promise, returned to him, mixed with a very ugly thing, suspicion. “And is this the first time you have seen or spoken to him or had any communication with him?” he asked. Helen raised her eyes to him in quiet surprise. No trace of resentment or sense of injustice was in her voice. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I should have told you otherwise.” He looked at the sweet, patient face, struggling for a moment with this worse self of his, which yet was so upright, so devoted. “I know you would,” he said at last. “I don’t know why I asked you that.” Helen laughed. “Nor do I,” she said. “You and he have been very patient, Helen,” he said. “Yes, till this morning I think we have,” she said. “But to-day, perhaps, the spring was too strong for us both. Is it not in your blood this morning, father? It is in mine.” He smiled at her gravely. “And a very suitable thing,” he said. “And summer comes next for you. For you and Martin.” “Yes, Martin too,” she said, with an appeal in her eyes. “Oh, father, can’t we be all happy together again? We used to be.” Mr. Challoner stood silent a moment, a sort of aching longing for all he had always missed in Martin and a dim, bitter regret for all his own missed opportunities of making the most of the human relation between himself and his son rising suddenly within him. And he spoke with a terrible quiet sincerity. “I don’t think Martin used ever to be happy with me,” he said. “Once he told me he was not happy at home. I don’t think that he ever was. It was perhaps the fault of both of us, but it was certainly mine. I should have done somehow differently. I think we never understood each other. Nor can I understand him now. It is sad. I cannot reconcile what he has done----“ He broke off again. “There, dear, you must be getting on your way,” he said, “and I must be getting home.” But she detained him a moment more. “Won’t you give me a little hope?” she said. “I thought last night that perhaps, perhaps soon--and this news this morning----“ But her father disengaged her hand. “I shall, of course, write to him,” he said, “and congratulate him. She is a very charming girl. I think Martin is most fortunate.” “Martin is very charming, too, remember,” said she.