‘You’d better have that black silk petticoat; it will be nice and cool for you to wear, and I shall keep to white all the rest of the summer.’ ‘Yes, your ladyship.’ ‘Now I will lie down; don’t let me be disturbed until it is time to dress for dinner.’ ‘No, your ladyship.’ * * * * * ‘A telegram for your ladyship,’ said Elizabeth as Geraldine entered her bedroom about twelve o’clock next morning to get ready for a stroll on the beach. ‘All right. I shall not want you for a minute or two.’ Elizabeth discreetly left the room. She opened the brown envelope, took out the flimsy pink paper, and read, ‘Have started for Portsmouth. Will write. Travers.’ That she could not prevent, that she could do nothing to stop, him coming was a thought that filled her with exultation. He was getting nearer and nearer every moment; and what was more, she was to have a letter from him--it would arrive that evening by the last post perhaps; if not, certainly in the morning. Then she thought of his being married, but it made no difference; she knew he had married before he saw her, that was all that really mattered to her. She rang for Elizabeth, and crushing the telegram up put it into the front of her dress. She dressed, and went out in the highest spirits. She was charming to every one, and made herself so agreeable that Lord Foreshort felt quite encouraged. He said, ‘How well this climate agrees with you!’ ‘Doesn’t it. It is exactly the sort of place I like: plenty of life about, and at the same time everything is clean, and spick and span.’ ‘It’s perfect. Our tastes are so alike.’ ‘You are always saying that, Lord Foreshort.’ ‘I am always thinking it, Lady Geraldine.’ ‘Then you have no time to think about your tastes?’ ‘No, I am always thinking of yours.’ ‘So am I.’ ‘There, I told you we agreed.’ ‘Well, that’s settled. Now let us talk of something else.’ ‘When will you begin to let me hope.’ ‘You are hoping now, are you not?’ ‘Do you really mean it?’ ‘Mean what?’ ‘That I may hope?’ ‘I can’t prevent you hoping, can I?’ ‘Yes, you know you can.’ ‘Well, I’ve tried to a good many times.’ ‘But you will give up trying now, won’t you? Take another tack.’ ‘Very well. You have hoped without my permission the whole of the London season; you can hope with my permission during the shooting season, then perhaps you will be sick of hope.’ ‘Yes, I shall claim my reward then.’ ‘Ah! that’s “another story.” We mustn’t get on too fast.’ That evening the expected letter arrived. It ran thus--