She was looking very dainty, very soft. That creamy dress showed off her dark hair and eyes, which seemed somehow to be—flying off somewhere; yes—it was queer, but that was the only way to put it. He got no reassurance, no comfort, from the sight of her. And slowly he stripped the skin from the banana with which he always commenced breakfast. One might just as well be asked to shoot a tame dove or tear a pretty flower to pieces as be expected to take her to task, even if he could, in honour. And he sought refuge in the words: “Been out?” Then could have bitten his tongue off. Suppose she answered: “No.” But she did not so answer. The colour came into her cheeks, indeed, but she nodded: “It's so lovely!” How pretty she looked saying that! He had put himself out of court now—could never tell her what he had seen, after setting, as it were, that trap for her; and presently he asked: “Got any plans to-day?” She answered, without flinching in the least: “Mark Lennan and I were going to take mules from Mentone up to Gorbio.” He was amazed at her steadiness—never, to his knowledge, having encountered a woman armoured at every point to preserve a love that flies against the world. How tell what was under her smile! And in confusion of feeling that amounted almost to pain he heard her say: “Will you and Aunt Dolly come?” Between sense of trusteeship and hatred of spoiling sport; between knowledge of the danger she was in and half-pitying admiration at the sight of her; between real disapproval of an illicit and underhand business (what else was it, after all?) and some dim perception that here was something he did not begin to be able to fathom—something that perhaps no one but those two themselves could deal with—between these various extremes he was lost indeed. And he stammered out: “I must ask your aunt; she's—she's not very good on a mule.” Then, in an impulse of sheer affection, he said with startling suddenness: “My dear, I've often meant to ask, are you happy at home?” “At home?” There was something sinister about the way she repeated that, as if the word “home” were strange to her. She drank her coffee and got up; and the Colonel felt afraid of her, standing there—afraid of what she was going to tell him. He grew very red. But, worse than all, she said absolutely nothing; only shrugged her shoulders with a little smile that went to his heart. VI