Fitz lighted the candles and set the music ready with a certain neatness of hand rarely acquired by landsmen, and then returned to the smaller drawing-room, where Eve was seated by the fire, needlework in hand. He stood for a moment leaning against the mantelpiece. Perhaps he was waiting for her to speak. Perhaps he did not realise how much there was in his long, silent gaze. "How long have you been here?" he asked, when the music began. "Ten days," she answered, without looking up. "But you are not going to live here?"--with some misgiving. "Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk." He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presently he came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner of the mantelpiece. It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle of needlework and looking at it critically. "I never thanked you," she said, "for all your kindness to me at D'Erraha. You were a friend in need." It was quite different from what it had been at D'Erraha. Possibly it was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eve seemed to have something of London in the reserve of her manner--the easy insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untainted by worldliness--sincere, frank, and open. Fitz was rather taken aback. "Oh," he answered, "I could not do much. There was really nothing that I could do except to stand by in case I might be wanted." Eve took up her needle again. "But," she said, "that is already something. It is often a great comfort, especially to women, to know that there is some one 'standing by,' as you call it, in case they are wanted." She gave a little laugh, and then suddenly became quite grave. The recollection of a conversation they had had at D'Erraha had flashed across her memory, as recollections do--at the wrong time. The conversation she remembered was recorded at the time--it was almost word for word with this, but quite different. Fitz was looking at her with his impenetrable simplicity. "Will you oblige me," he said, "by continuing to look upon me in that light?" She had bent her head rather far over her work as he spoke, and as he said the last five words her breath seemed to come with a little catch, as if she had pricked her finger. The musicians were just finishing a brilliant performance, and before answering Fitz she looked round into the other room, nodded, smiled, and thanked them. Then she turned to him, still speaking in the light and rather indifferent tone which was so new to him, and said-- "Thank you very much, but of course I have my uncle. How--how long will you be--staying on shore? You deserve a long leave, do you not?" "Yes, I suppose I do," said Fitz absently. He had evidently listened more to the voice than the words. He forgot to answer the question. But she repeated it. "How long do you get?" she asked, hopelessly conversational. "About three weeks."