"Yes," she said. It would be idle to say "in the well-remembered tones." Her voice was identical with Winifred's: her appearance, gesture, carriage--all were Winifred's; but the telepathy of love told Lionel the myriad differences between the sisters, differences impalpable, impossible to define or even hint at, but differences that were real, if psychological. "I came by the four-thirty, and walked from the station." "Then--good heavens! what time is it?" "Six o'clock," she said with a smile. "How long have you been asleep?" "It must be at least three hours," said Lionel in rueful amazement. "Fancy wasting three hours of a day like this in sleep! But don't let us waste any more. Tell me all about yourself, your plans, everything. You are well?" he added anxiously, though the question was needless. "Perfectly. And you?" "Quite fit, thanks." And a silence fell between them. It seemed odd that there should be a silence, for so much had happened since they last met. Lionel had been living in a penny novelette, and her fate could not have been much more fortunate. Yet now they seemed to have nothing to say beyond the commonplaces of friendly acquaintanceship. It was Lionel who broke the silence. "You must let me say that...." He stopped. He could not honestly say he was sorry for the death of Lukos, so he changed the form of his statement: "--that I am sorry for your trouble. You know it already, but I should like to tell it you.... I suppose it must be true?" "Thank you," Beatrice replied evenly. "Yes, I expect it is true; but, as I wrote to you, I am going to make sure." "Is that wise?" "Perhaps not, but I mean to go." Lionel did not attempt to argue with her, to reason or persuade. The finality of tone and his knowledge of the woman made him give up at once any thought of such a useless effort. "But I go with her," he resolved, "either as husband or servant. And if she won't take me, I'll go on my own if I have to steal a ride under the train!" "Did you call at the house?" he asked. "I came straight across here, seeing you the moment I entered the gate. Perhaps I had better see my sister before we begin to talk. Our conversation may be long." Lionel moved uneasily. "I am sorry to say," he began, "that your sister feels anything but well-disposed toward you. She resents your suspicion, and ... and...." he stuck fast. "Refuses to see me?" she suggested. He nodded. "I have hopes of winning her over yet, but...." "If she has said 'No' she will stick to it," said Beatrice, digging her parasol into the lawn. "She can be a darling, but she can also be pig-headed. What do you think of her?" she added quickly, turning upon him. "Charming," said Lionel. "Except for this unfortunate weakness. And there is some excuse even for that." "Do you consider her pretty?" It sounded an odd question, but oddities were lost on him now. "Yes; very pretty." "As pretty as I?" asked Beatrice.