"Oh, really! That's fairly strenuous, I should think. What a bore for you." She laughed. "It's my bread and butter. There are less pleasant methods of making a livelihood. But of course one gets tired." He nodded sympathetically. "I want you to rest this afternoon and get rid of the headache. I'd like to take you for a walk after dinner if you care about going. It's my last night. Until you came there was no one to walk with--except Hallam. And he's such an unsociable beast. I wish you wouldn't talk to him. He is not a suitable companion for you." "Don't say those things," she interposed quickly. "It's ungenerous." She felt angry with Sinclair, felt an inexplicable necessity to defend the man he spoke of in such slighting terms. It was not merely because he was absent and unable to defend himself; there was something more than that to account for her indignation; she realised that much without understanding its nature. Never in all her life had she met any one who interested her so profoundly, who so deeply stirred her pity. She wanted to help this man--with her friendship. There was no other thought in her mind. And he would not let her. He demanded simply to be left alone. A girl could not thrust her friendship on a man who did not want it. But she could defend him in her thoughts and in her speech without fear of his resentment. "I think Mr Hallam is a very remarkable man," she said. "I should hesitate to criticise him." Sinclair looked at her in surprise. "Do you know," he said, "that is the second time I have annoyed you in reference to the same subject." "Not annoyed," she corrected,--"disappointed me, rather. I hate to hear a man speak disparagingly of another." The young man was vexed, and showed it. Her ready championship of Hallam displeased him. It was a sort of feminine instinct, he supposed, to shed the light of a tender compassion on the derelict. Women were absurdly sentimental. "You do jump on a fellow," he said, aggrieved. "I had no idea you would take my words amiss. Forget them, please." "And you forget my irritable mood." She smiled at him with kind brown eyes, eyes which expressed liking in fuller measure than their displeasure of a moment before. She regretted her outburst. What did it concern her what he thought, what any one thought of a man who was almost a stranger to her, whom a few days ago she did not know. "I slept badly last night," she added, as if to account for her ill-humour. "How was that?" he asked, more with a view to turning the talk than from curiosity. His question recalled the ugly memories of the night very vividly to her. She heard again in imagination the stumbling footsteps going along the stoep. Her face clouded. "What does keep one wakeful at times?" she inquired. "The mind works, I suppose. I think perhaps I was tired." "I took you too far," he said contritely. "It was inconsiderate of me. But you seemed so interested."