By and by, Sir Justin Wentworth strolled in from his hotel. Though she was dying to stay and meet him, and perhaps have a few words, Joan rose and walked away. This course was approved by General Ffrench. He would have known what to think if the beautiful Comtesse had made herself fascinating, at such short notice, to his son-in-law elect. Joan talked with her "cousin," who had been in the smoking-room, and Violet Ffrench had time to be intensely curious as to the connection between her charming new acquaintance, the Comtesse de Merival, and the handsome, dark young man who had been in her hotel at Paris. He had looked at her then; he looked at her now. What was he to the Comtesse? what was the Comtesse to him? Next morning, both General Ffrench and Sir Justin Wentworth walked off to the golf-links, leaving Violet to write letters in the glass room that looked out on the sea. Presently Joan came in, with a writing-case in her hand, and Violet stopped in the midst of the first sentence of her first letter. Joan did not even begin to write, nor had she ever cherished the faintest intention of doing so. Violet rather hoped that she would mention the dark young man, but she did not; and then, of course, Violet hoped it a great deal more. The two girls drifted from one subject to another, and finally, by way of a favourite author and a popular novel of the moment, they touched the key of romance. "I used to think that romance was dead in this century, but lately I have been finding out that it isn’t," said Joan. "Oh, not personally. Romance is over for me. I loved my husband, you see, and he died the day of our wedding; I married him on his death-bed. That is not romance; it is tragedy. But I am speaking of what I should not speak of, to you, so let us talk of something else." "Why?" asked Violet. "Oh, because--because I have an idea that you are engaged." "How can that matter?" "It does matter. I oughtn’t to explain, so you mustn’t urge me." "You rouse my curiosity," said Violet; but this was not news to Joan. "Engaged girls shouldn’t have curiosity about anything outside their own romances," replied the Comtesse de Merival mysteriously. "I’ve never had a real romance," sighed Violet. "I’ve always been more or less engaged to Sir Justin Wentworth ever since I can remember. He is a splendid fellow, as you can see." "I hardly noticed," said Joan; then added, in a whisper, but not too low a whisper to be heard: "I was so busy pitying someone else." Violet’s colour rose, and she was really a very pretty girl, though vanity made her eyes cold. "Sir Justin’s father and mine were old chums," went on Violet. "Our place and his lie close together in Devonshire. We have even some of the same money-interests--mines in Australia. He has heaps of money, too, so there’s no question of his needing to think of mine."