Yet Doris had a dim consciousness of questionings, somewhere far below, which would not be stilled; questionings intangible, unexpressed, but real. For her world consisted of more than just Dick and herself; and that which was enough at the present moment might not always be enough. Late in the afternoon they found their way up the mountain to a quiet spot, away from everybody. It had been a day of dull weather, and the heights were heavily capped with clouds. One or two distant growls heralded a storm. Maurice sat beside her on the steep grass-slope, his stick across his knees, his brown hands grasping it. Ever and anon the honest grey eyes wandered towards Doris. "I'm off too," he said. "But you've got a day or two more." "I can't stand this place without you." "And then you come to Lynnbrooke." "You've made me promise not to arrive till after yourself." Maurice shifted the stick. "Mr. Stirling won't approve." "Won't approve of what?" "My going to Lynnbrooke. He has always kept me away." "But—why should he?" "I can't explain. He has insisted." "Mrs. Brutt won't say yet whether she means to stay more than one night in Paris. You will have to allow for that. Dick, I wonder whether she has been making mischief. She has seemed so queer and glum the last day or two. I can't make her out." "She's looking rather blue at me too." "If she has begun to suspect, it would be like her to meddle. I do wish now that you had written off the first thing." "Do you, darling?" "They will think it so wrong of me. I know exactly how they will feel. And—I'm afraid it was wrong—really wrong." "In any case, they will blame me, not you. Don't worry your dear self. Things will come right." "Will they? I'm not so sure. It doesn't seem to have been quite—quite straight of me, not to tell at once. And I have always prided myself on being straight." "You see, darling, it was simply a question which to do,—whether to write, or to wait till I could see your father." "Oh, I know. But it was wrong. I see that now. I ought to have written. It was quite, quite wrong not to write! Or else—if I didn't— I ought not to have been so much with you, these last days." "Shall I write to your father now? Would you rather that I should?" She considered gravely. "Yes, I would. I don't like to go home, and to have to tell them. I'd rather find them knowing it." "I'll write this evening." He held her hand to his lips. "You might say you are travelling home, and will go to Lynnbrooke for your answer. Would that do?" "It would be—diplomatic!" Dick was not a lover of diplomatic methods. "If you give an address, they may write and stop you."