Phyllys jumped up. A "run" to any part of the lake was charming, and in a few minutes they were off, hurrying through the village of brown and yellow châlets, with their verandahs and overhanging eaves. It was about ten minutes' walk to the boat-station, and they were in time for the next steamer, zigzagging from side to side of the lake, in progress from Interlaken to Thun. She had been to the quaint old town more than once, but one could not go too often, and Mr. Forsyth made an excellent conductor. They wandered through the streets, visited the castle, admired the views, and enjoyed themselves. "Pity Randolph refuses to come out! Great pity!" remarked Mr. Forsyth. Phyllys had not heard this. "Mrs. Keith was sure he would come. Can't understand it! She didn't want her own son—odd, rather!—come to think of it. Bent on having Randolph. My wife and I quite willing, of course—room enough for both. Mrs. Keith seems to have urged it—but letter this morning decisive. No—yesterday, was it? I've no memory. Says he has too much to do—can't get away. Mrs. Keith will have told you." "No. Was I meant not to know it?" "She told us—spoke openly. By-the-by—that wretched memory of mine!—she did say she wanted his coming to be a surprise. But now of course—no matter, since he can't come." "It would have been nice if he could," she said. A shadow had fallen; for this might mean much. If Mrs. Keith had tried to persuade Giles to join them, and had urged in vain, it looked as if he did not greatly care to see more of Phyllys. Was he so overwhelmingly busy that he could not spare a few days? She found it hard to believe. He was his own master. "Getting tired, eh?" demanded Mr. Forsyth. "O no," and she roused herself. "But ought we not to go back?" He assured her there was no hurry, and they started for a fresh tramp. She did her best to seem interested, and to laugh at his little jokes; but the strain became severe. Soon she could not hide that she really was tired—with a heartsickness which he did not suspect. He grew concerned, and took her to the nearest inn, insisting on a fresh supply of tea, though they had had some earlier. She remonstrated in vain. He wandered into the passage, and came back, laughing. "Now how is that?" he asked, holding out a letter. "Sent to this inn, of all places! 'To be kept till called for.' What chance that Mrs. Keith ever would call?" Phyllys' heart gave a throb. "From Giles!" escaped her lips. "Giles Randolph?" Mr. Forsyth examined the envelope. "Now you mention the fact, I 'have' seen his hand. Characteristic! But I say—" turning the letter round—"if so, he is in Switzerland. The postmark is Swiss—Interlaken." Another throb, this time of hope. "But you said he would not come."