She was in York, having arrived three days earlier, and she had been taken by surprise at the news of Colin's presence in Midfell, forwarded from home. It was extremely wrong of Colin, just when he had been ordered complete rest. He would suffer for it, &c.; and she had come to see about things herself. That Colin showed gratification at her advent could hardly be said. He was, as always, courteous; but her arrival broke into a plan of his own. Last touches having been given to the bust of Phyllys, he was on the point of proposing to make a cast of Mrs. Wyverne's fine old head. Now he waited for developments. They soon appeared. Mrs. Keith was primed with a scheme to circumvent him. The friends with whom she was staying in York—an old school-chum and her husband—had lately bought a châlet on the borders of Lake Thun, and had asked her to return with them for a month. She brought also an invitation for Phyllys. Would Mrs. Wyverne spare her? Expense should be Mrs. Keith's concern; she promised every care; the excursion would be enjoyable for Phyllys; and for herself it would mean gain in the added cheerfulness of a young companion. So much passed in public; and Phyllys' hopes of being allowed to go were faint. But a few words in private settled the question. "No—not the least chance of Colin joining us," Mrs. Keith said, in response to a query. "He is due in Scotland; and the Forsyths scarcely know him." This induced the old lady to give in, despite Barbara's remonstrances. CHAPTER XXIV A FAMILIAR HANDWRITING PHYLLYS sat alone in the garden of Châlet S. Jacques, intent on the scene before her. Ah, but it was lovely! Had she never come across Colin Keith, it would have been less to her than now; yet the underflow of her mind was towards Giles, not Colin. Which seemed, perhaps, ungrateful. Ten days earlier she and Mrs. Keith, travelling with Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth, had reached this villa or "châlet," lately purchased as a summer resort by Mrs. Keith's friends. Here they would remain another ten days. After that, possibly, Mrs. Keith and she might move to another part of Switzerland before returning home. The wailings of an ill-handled violin from the châlet behind disturbed her musing. Mr. Forsyth, kindest of men, never dreamt that his tuneless dirges could affect others unpleasantly. He was always happy, violin in hand. So was his wife, while she could talk. A ceaseless murmur travelled through the open window, underneath that which held the violin. The two elder ladies had been at work for an hour, discussing the latest fashion in toques and bodices; one of the two with her back to Nature's sublimity, the other with eyes on her knitting. Of course they had both looked out, and had said how pretty it was.