"It has been atrocious in London. I hope you had better luck in the country. To-day has been especially disagreeable," she was saying. Cyril abused the weather with a vigour which was rather surprising, in view of the fact that till she had mentioned it, he had been sublimely unconscious whether the sun had been shining or not. But finally even that prolific topic was exhausted and as no other apparently suggested itself to either, they relapsed into a constrained silence. Cyril was suffering acutely. He had so longed to see her, and now an impalpable barrier had somehow arisen between them which separated them more completely than mere bricks and mortar, than any distance could have done. True, he could feast his eyes on her cameo-like profile; on the soft curve of her cheek; on the long, golden-tipped lashes; on the slender, white throat, which rose like a column from the laces of her dress. But he dared not look at her too long. Cyril was not introspective and was only dimly aware of the cause of the turmoil which was raging in his heart. He did not know that he averted his eyes for fear that the primitive male within him would break loose from the fetters of his will and forcibly seize the small creature so temptingly within his reach. "If I only knew what I have done to displease her!" he said to himself. He longed to question her, but she held herself so rigidly aloof that he had not the courage to do so. It was in vain that he told himself that her coldness simplified the situation; that it would have been terrible to have had to repel her advances; but he could find no consolation in the thought. In speechless misery he sat gazing into the fire. Suddenly he thrilled with the consciousness that she was looking at him. He turned towards her and their eyes met. The glance they exchanged was of the briefest duration, but it sufficed to lift the weight which had been crushing him. He leaned eagerly forward. "Have I offended you?" he asked. The corners of her mouth quivered slightly, but she did not answer. "If I have," he continued, "I assure you it was quite unintentionally. Why, I would give my life to save you a moment's pain. Can't you feel that I am speaking the truth?" She turned her face towards him, and as he looked at her, Cyril realised that it was not only her manner which had altered; she herself had mysteriously altered. At first he could not define wherein the difference lay, but suddenly it flashed upon him. It was the expression of her eyes which had changed. Heretofore he had been confident that they reflected her every emotion; but now they were inscrutable. It was as if she had drawn a veil over her soul. "I don't know what you mean," she said. There was more than a hint of hostility in her voice. The evasion angered him. "That is impossible! Why not be frank with me? If my visit is distasteful to you, you have only to say so and I will go." As she did not immediately answer, he added: