Edward felt that he was scowling, and all his efforts could not smooth out the scowl. She was patting Charles and looking at Charles's master. "We are very much indebted to you, sir," said Edward, coldly. "Nothing, I assure you," said the gentleman with the red neck. "Only too happy to be of service to Miss--er--" "Basingstoke," said Edward, and saw in her eyes that he had not done the right thing. "I suppose you forgot to write to Aunt Emily and Uncle James," he said, seeking to retrieve the last move. "Indeed I didn't," she said, with plain relief. "I wrote directly I got here, and gave them to the waiter to post." Another silence longer than the first was broken by the waiter, who came to announce that the gentleman's lunch was ready in the coffee-room. The other gentleman--red-necked--asked for his bill. While the waiter was gone for it, Edward put a sovereign on the table. "For my sister's share," he said. The red-necked gentleman protested. "You know," she said, in a low voice, "I said I should pay my share." The red-necked gentleman rose. "I will tell them," he said, "to make out your bill separately. And now, if I cannot be of any further service to you, I think I'll be getting on. Good day to you." "Good day," said Edward, "and thank you for your kindness to my sister." "Good-by," said she, "and thank you a thousand times." She held out her hand. He bowed over it and went away through the sunlit garden, resentment obvious in every line of his back. Neither Edward nor the girl spoke. There was no sound in the arbor save the convulsive gulpings of Charles absorbing the sponge fingers which she absently offered him from among the scattered dessert. It was she who broke the silence. "I did write," she said. "Yes. I got the letter." He laid it and Miss Davenant's on the table. "What does it mean?" "What it says--" "You won't let _me_ help you--but you let that man, right enough." "What was I to do? The important thing was to get away." "What tale did you tell that man?" "The truth." He scowled with bitter skepticism. "I did. Except that you're not my brother. I told him I'd missed you and that I'd got to get to London to-day as early as I could. And he was awfully nice and kind." "I can well believe it." "_Nice_ and kind," she repeated, with emphasis. "And you were most horrid to him. And I do think you're unkind--" "I don't mean to be," said Edward, "and it's not my province to be horrid and unkind to you, any more than it is to be nice and kind. In this letter you say good-by. Am I to understand that you mean good-by--that I am to leave you, here--now?" She did not answer, and there was that in her silence which laid a healing touch on his hurt vanity. "If my manner doesn't please you," he went on, "do remember that you have brought a fairly solid Spanish castle about my ears and that I am still a little bewildered and bruised." "I'm sorry," she said, "but I didn't think."