For a week all went well, and the bust made progress. Colin was unusually vigorous; perhaps from the light moor air which seemed to keep headache at bay. "I shall know where to go next time when I want change," he said. He looked his best; active, joyous, full of delight in his task, full also of bright expectancy in another direction, which the Vicar saw with gladness, and Mrs. Wyverne with anxiety. Phyllys enjoyed having him. She delighted in his artistic talk; she chatted freely as she sat for her clay portrait; and the hours slid by. It was reflection of Castle Hill happiness. But after days of work and intercourse, a change dawned. Mrs. Wyverne had one morning been called away, and Phyllys occupied the usual position. "I've had to write at last to let them know where I am," he remarked. Then—"You are tired. Take it easy for five minutes. You must rest." She had found it out herself earlier. A weariness had taken possession of her, a longing for something, she could not define what. All this seemed not worth while. She stood and stretched herself while he turned to do something with one of the little wooden instruments. And the thought came—if Giles had been there instead of Colin! It was like a wave of understanding poured over her. In a moment she saw that she was tired of having Colin only in place of Giles. She liked him, admired his gifts, enjoyed his conversation. But her real want was for Giles. She wanted him, not for his mental gifts, not for aught that he might say or do, but for himself. She wanted the strong manly presence, the intense devotion. "Was" it devotion? Did he care for her further than as a friend? How was she to know? Colin by comparison was nothing. Suddenly she had grown satiated with Nature and Art, with his thoughts about both. He had fascinated her, and he might fascinate her again; but he could not give all she wanted. Not Nature, not Art, still less theories about either, could meet her claims. It was love that she needed; Giles' love.