She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her--a single tear, which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all, but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder. "Beaty!" she said stupidly. "Are you--crying?" Beatrice turned on the music-stool and looked her mother calmly in the face. There was not a trace of emotion in the clear, steady eyes. "I--crying?" she said. "What should have made you think that? Have you ever seen me cry?" "No, never. I couldn't understand. You are all right?" "Perfectly all right, thank you. Hadn't you better see about the tea?" Mrs. Cary heaved a sigh of relief and satisfaction. "Of course. How thoughtful you can be, my dear! The gentlemen may be back any moment." She sailed heavily across the room, on her way passing the glass doors which opened on to the verandah. "Why!" she exclaimed, stopping short, "if that isn't Captain Stafford mounting his horse! Look, Beaty! And he hasn't even come to say good-by." Beatrice turned indifferently. "I expect he has some important business--" she began, and then, as her eyes fell on the man outside swinging himself up into the saddle, she stopped and rose abruptly to her feet. "I have never seen anyone look like that before!" she said, under her breath. "He looks--awful." Mrs. Cary nodded. "As though he had seen a ghost," she supplemented unsteadily. "What can have happened?" The horse's head was jerked around to the compound gates. Amidst a clatter of hoofs and in a cloud of dust Stafford galloped out of sight, not once turning to glance in their direction. The two women stood and stared at each other, even Beatrice for the moment shaken out of her usual self-control by what she had seen. They had no time to make any further observations, for almost immediately Travers came up the steps, his sun-helmet in his hand. Whatever had happened, he at least seemed unmoved. The exceptional pallor of his face had given place to the old healthy glow. "I have come to drink Stafford's share of the tea as well as my own," he said cheerily. "You see, Mrs. Cary, in spite of your strict injunctions, I have sent the poor fellow flying off on a fresh business matter. He asked me to excuse him, as he was in a great hurry." "So it seems!" Mrs. Cary observed, rather tartly. "He might at least have stayed to say good-by."