Poor child, I don't think that I myself was entirely the object of her concern--no, not even though I was so blest as to be a link between her and a certain young Englishman who went about in French clothes and was known by a French name. I don't think she quite knew what she wanted, except that it was exquisite to be a little mournful, and to be doing something for somebody. In spite of that impulsive little gesture, I don't think her mother had her confidence. That was rather the compounding of a secrecy than a confidence. It was an atonement, a guilty little reparation that but locked up her secret the more securely. I am aware that young girls are traditionally supposed to fly instantly to their mothers with their troubles of this sort. I can only say that that is not my experience. Far more frequently they will fly to a confidante of their own age, and even once in a while to a person like myself. Her mother would be much, oh, ever so much to her; but she would not be told about that note that had been surreptitiously slipped from hand to hand. "Well, what have you been doing with yourself for the last three days, Jennie?" I asked. A Brittany crock of genêts made fragrant the room. Her eyes were fixed on the flowers. "Yesterday I went for a bicycle ride," she said. "Oh? I didn't know you had a bicycle here." "I hadn't. I hired one." "Where did you go? Anywhere nice?" Instead of answering my question she said, with her eyes still on the flowers, "I've got something for you, Uncle George." "And what's that?" "Here it is." From some tuck in the region of her waist she drew out a note, which she handed to me. With my elbow on my pillow I read it. It was on a page torn out from a sketch-book, and it ran: "I hear you're laid up and hope you'll soon be all right again. I didn't thank you properly the other night; I couldn't; you know what I mean. Don't worry about my not keeping my promise; that's all right; everything's as-you-were till you're about again. But then I want to see you as soon as ever you can. You get well and don't worry. "D. R." Slowly I folded up the note and put it into the pocket of my pyjama-jacket. She seemed fully to expect my silence. The shadow of a marten fled swiftly across the sill of the window. The house-martens built at Ker Annic. At last, "I see," I said slowly. "I see." She did not seem to think it necessary to reply. Neither was it. "I see," I said again. Then, "Yesterday you went cycling," I said. "What did you do the day before?" "I went for a walk." "And the day before that?" "I went for a walk too." "Jennie ... were they supposed to know about these walks--you know who I mean?" "Father and mother? No." "Where did they think you were?" "Don't know. I didn't say anything at all." "They've no idea you went for two walks and a bicycle ride with Monsieur Arnaud?" No reply.