Cecily had received the intimation with secret resentment. It struck her as discourteous to their guest, that her husband, who had only just returned, should not have arranged on that first day, which was also the last of Rose’s visit, to spend some of his hours at home. As the result of long reflection, she had met him cheerfully the previous evening, and had been relieved to find that he showed no inclination to allude again to the interrupted subject of their difference. She determined to ignore the matter; to behave as though the discussion had never arisen. Rose glanced at her once or twice as she sat absently stirring her coffee. “What are you thinking about?” she asked at length, breaking the silence abruptly. The depth of Cecily’s reflection was indicated by her start. “Robert,” she answered, laconically. “What about him?” “Lots of things. But chiefly how ill he looks.” “He can’t have heard anything, can he?” suggested Rose after a moment. Cecily made a little movement expressing ignorance. “She was here this morning as usual,” she said. “Yes,” Rose agreed. “It can’t be that. And,” she added, suddenly, “I don’t believe he cares any more about her.” “Some one else?” suggested Cecily, with a little laugh. “Yes--you.” Cecily raised her head, and looked full at her friend. There was in her face a curious mixture of expression; a sort of pitying consternation and a faint gleam of amusement. It was the glance with which a mother might have heard of some unreasonable and rather troublesome caprice on the part of her son. Rueful annoyance was coupled with a slight admixture of tenderness. “It would be so like Robert,” was all she said in reply to Rose. “And if it’s true,” pursued Rose after a moment, “would you----?” She paused. “Oh, Rose!” said Cecily. “Rose----?” She drew her breath in suddenly. “If you hit a live thing on the head often enough, you make it insensible. What’s the good of caressing it then?” Mrs. Summers was silent. “Robert ought to go away,” Cecily continued, rising from the table. “He’ll be ill if he doesn’t. I’d like him to go yachting with the Daintons,” she went on, meditatively. “They are always asking him. I wonder if it could be managed?” “No doubt,” Rose assured her. “If only he could get away before he hears anything--and stay away till that young woman is safely married!” Despite herself, Rose laughed. “That young woman” as designated by Cecily was irresistible. “You’ll never be a saint, my dear!” “A saint?” she repeated, absently, her mind evidently still preoccupied. “Why should I be? I’m only worried about Robert.” She continued to discuss in detail plans for persuading her husband to take a long holiday, and only roused from her musings upon the subject to glance hurriedly at the clock.