Mayne glanced sharply at him as he half turned away to light the cigarette he held. “You are really going to town in the autumn? But I thought you were so keen on this?” He waved his hand comprehensively. “Oh, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Kingslake, irritably. “It’s all right, but one can’t live on lilies and roses, you know.” He broke off abruptly. “Listen! Was that the bell?” “I don’t think so,” returned Dick, composedly. “Why? Expecting any one?” “Oh, no--no!” There was quite an elaborate unconcern in his tone. “That is, a friend of Cecily’s--a Miss Burton--is coming to lunch, I believe.” Mayne had resumed his work. For the fraction of a second his deft fingers stopped in their movement. Robert was walking backwards and forwards across the little strip of turf in front of the seat. When he spoke again, it was abruptly. “You don’t think Cecily’s looking well, do you?” “Not at all well,” returned Mayne, quietly. “No--no,” said her husband, the second negation indicating that he was giving the matter his full attention. “I don’t think she is. She took the baby’s death to heart.” He threw a quick glance at his companion. “She--she wants rousing. I think you’ll do her a lot of good, Mayne. I’m glad you’re able to stay a little while; it’s what she wants--an interest for her. An old friend, and that sort of thing. You must come and look us up when we’re in town.” “Thanks,” returned Mayne, laconically. There was a pause. Robert took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. “Doesn’t get any cooler, does it?” he remarked. “I’m glad on your wife’s account that you’re going to live in town,” Mayne said presently. Robert looked, as he felt, genuinely surprised. “For Cecily? Why?” “Don’t you think she’s rather thrown away here?” The quietness of his tone irritated Robert. He reminded himself that he had never really liked Mayne. He was rather an unfriendly brute. “Thrown away?” he repeated; “oh, I don’t know. Why? A woman has her house--and the neighbors; and she’s very fond of the garden, and that sort of thing.” “That sort of thing used not to be very much in her line.” “Oh, yes, I know!” exclaimed Kingslake, impatiently, as he balanced himself on the arm of the bench. “All girls--especially the rather spoilt sort of girl that Cecily was--get ideas into their heads. But, my dear fellow, a woman nearly always settles down after she’s married.” “Some of your most striking novels are founded on a contrary opinion,” observed Mayne, with a laugh. “You see you are read--even in the wilds.” “You flatter me,” said Robert, dryly. He moved again, and began his restless pacing. “Cecily, I suppose, has been complaining--telling you that it was my wish to come into the country, and so forth?” he broke out at last with some resentment.