Mirabelle shook her head. If the truth be told, she was glad to be alone. All that day she had been forced to listen to the plaints and weepings of this transfigured girl, and she felt that she could not well stand another twenty-four hours. “You’re sure you won’t mind being alone? “No, of course not. I shall miss you,” added Mirabelle, more in truth than in compliment. “When will you return?” The girl made a little grimace. “To-morrow.” “You don’t want to come back, naturally? Have you succeeded in persuading your—your friend to let me out too?” Joan shook her head. “He’ll never do that, my dear, not till . . .” She looked at the girl. “You’re not engaged, are you?” “I? No. Is that another story they’ve heard?” Mirabelle got up from the bed, laughing. “An heiress, and engaged?” “No, they don’t say you were engaged.” Joan hastened to correct the wrong impression. There was genuine admiration in her voice, when she said: “You’re wonderful, kid! If I were in your shoes I’d be quaking. You’re just as cheerful as though you were going to the funeral of a rich aunt!” She did not know how near to a breakdown her companion had been that day, and Mirabelle, who felt stronger and saner now, had no desire to tell her. “You’re rather splendid.” Joan nodded. “I wish I had your pluck.” And then, impulsively, she came forward and kissed the girl. “Don’t feel too sore at me,” she said, and was gone before Mirabelle could make a reply. The doctor was waiting for her in the factory. “The spy has walked up to the canal bridge. We can go forward,” he said. “Besides,”—he had satisfaction out of this—“he cannot see over high walls.” “What is this story about marrying Mirabelle Leicester?” “So he has told you? Also did he tell you that—that _he_ is going to marry her?” “Yes, and I’ll tell you something, doctor. I’d rather he married her than you.” “So!” said the doctor. “I’d rather anybody else married her, except that snake of yours.” Oberzohn looked round sharply. She had used the word quite innocently, without any thought of its application, and uttered an “Oh!” of dismay when she realized her mistake. “I meant Gurther,” she said. “Well, I know you meant Gurther, young miss,” he said stiffly. To get back to the house they had to make a half-circle of the factory and pass between the canal wall and the building itself. The direct route would have taken them into a deep hollow into which the debris of years had been thrown, and which now Nature, in her kindness, had hidden under a green mantle of wild convolvulus. It was typical of the place that the only beautiful picture in the grounds was out of sight.