To-night she questioned him about his life, and how he should spend the summer. Idling in France, he said. And she? She was not sure; but she thought that she also would be idling about France in her father’s yacht. So they might happen to meet. Meanwhile? Well, meanwhile, there were people coming to stay at Peppingham, their home. August would see that over. Then freedom. Was it freedom, to get away from all this--from England and rule and measure? No, she did not mean quite that. She loved the life with all its rules; she could not live without it. She had been brought up to expect and to do certain things. She liked her comforts, her luxuries, many pretty things about her, and days without friction. To travel? Yes, with all modern comforts, no long stages, a really good maid, and some fresh interesting books. What kind of books? Well, Walter Pater’s essays; “The Light of Asia”; a novel of that wicked man Thomas Hardy; and something light--“The Innocents Abroad”--with, possibly, a struggle through De Musset, to keep up her French. It did not seem exciting to Gaston, but it did sound honest, and it was in the picture. He much preferred Meredith, and Swinburne, and Dumas, and Hugo; but with her he did also like the whimsical Mark Twain. He thought of suggestions that Lady Belward had often thrown out; of those many talks with Sir William, excellent friends as they were, in which the baronet hinted at the security he would feel if there was a second family of Belwards. What if he--? He smiled strangely, and shrank. Marriage? There was the touchstone. After the dance, when he was taking her to her mother, he saw a pale intense face looking out to him from a row of others. He smiled, and the smile that came in return was unlike any he had ever seen Alice Wingfield wear. He was puzzled. It flashed to him strange pathos, affection, and entreaty. He took Delia Gasgoyne to her mother, talked to Lady Belward a little, and then went quietly back to where he had seen Alice. She was gone. Just then some people from town came to speak to him, and he was detained. When he was free he searched, but she was nowhere to be found. He went to Lady Belward. Yes, Miss Wingfield had gone. Lady Belward looked at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was curious. “Because she’s a lonely-looking little maid,” he said, “and I wanted to be kind to her. She didn’t seem happy a while ago.” Lady Belward was reassured. “Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston,” she said, and added: “You are a good boy to-night, a very good host indeed. It is worth the doing,” she went on, looking out on the guests proudly. “I did not think I should ever come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, away to your duty,” she added, tapping his breast affectionately with her fan, “and when everything is done, come and take me to my room.” Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate passages.