Involuntarily, Mayne followed the direction of her eyes. Mr. Nevern, a round-faced young poet, was leaning towards Miss Burton, and regarding her with an expression in which flattered vanity struggled with boyish admiration, and it was with difficulty that Mayne checked the laugh his hostess had been anxious to provoke. “Good-bye,” he said. “I meant what I told you. You haven’t altered a bit--in any way.” CHAPTER VI Rose Summers had gone, and during the week which separated her departure from Mayne’s expected visit, Cecily spent the long solitary days in the garden. Early every morning Robert cycled to the station. There was always a little fuss and confusion before he started. Robert was more helpless than most men. He could never find anything. His cigarette-case was lost, and when it was discovered by Cecily under a heap of papers in his study, there were no cigarettes left. She must open a fresh box; she must run to find his notes without which he could not get on at the Museum. Always, since their marriage, Cecily had been at hand to perform these little services, which had gradually become a matter of habit to both of them. For the last few days, however, as she ran from the dining-room to the study, and from the study to the flagged courtyard, where Robert was feverishly busy at the last moment, adjusting bicycle screws, and blowing up tires, Cecily’s mind was active. She thought of early days, and of the joy of discovering that Robert was such a child, needing so much care, and, in little things, so dependent upon her. She remembered his kisses, his words of extravagant praise when she found one of the many things he had lost, the brightening of his eyes when he saw her running downstairs. To-day, just as he was started, she had found a note-book he had evidently intended to take, lying on the hall table, and she had dashed out with it. He had travelled a few paces down the lane when she called to him, and with an irritable exclamation he had dismounted and returned, wheeling his bicycle with one hand, and reaching for the book with the other. “It didn’t matter,” he muttered, and absent-mindedly took the book without thanks, and rode off. Cecily stood leaning upon the gate, watching his retreating figure. Presently her lips parted in a bitter smile. “No. It didn’t matter. He won’t use notes to-day,” she thought, and quietly retraced her steps up the flagged path, through the hall, and out into the garden.