'Oh yes, they did! They don't keep everything for you. Well, Daphne Purdon is leaving--not, of course, of her own free will. You were right and I was wrong in that matter. But I think I've found just the right person to replace her.' 'H'm,' said he. 'Someone who will be quite ideal, whom even Mrs. Pomfret liked at first sight! But don't let's talk of the Settlement any more. Listen, rather, to my further good deeds. I am going to Brighton, a place I detest, in order to give pleasure to a good, kind little girl who is just now having a very bad time.' 'That,' he said,'is really meritorious. And when, may I ask, is this work of mercy to take place?' 'Next week; I shall be away for at least four days.' 'Well, perhaps I shall be in Brighton for a night,'--Winfrith brushed an invisible speck off his sleeve--'Wednesday night, myself. I do not share your dislike to the place. We can talk over Settlement affairs there, if we meet, as I suppose we shall?' Penelope hesitated. 'Yes,' she said at last, rather absently. 'We can talk over things there better than here. I expect to go abroad rather earlier this spring.' 'Why that?' He could not keep the dismay out of his voice. 'I thought you were so fond of the spring in London?' She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David--even you are entitled to a holiday sometimes--and come with me where I am going--down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people never, never go?' 'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the quiet, measured voice. She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she cried--'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful rôle.' 'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, and--and--a friend, on a similar excursion?' Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"'