Looking up at him, Theresa saw another face, and felt a dull throb in her breast. It would soon be a year since she had seen the mountains, a year since she had seen her friend. Strenuously she called him by that name, yet she would not obey her eager wish to write to him and so talk to him again: she was held back by some inherited instinct of waiting on the male, and she felt her spirit starving. It was hard to live for ever on her memories, and she turned to her old food. She must shine for some one, and she did it so glitteringly for her father and Simon Smith and Neville, that her pangs were dulled; but there returned the restlessness which, for a little while, had been banished. Edward Webb had been to stay among the hills, and she thought she would tear her heart out with his going. She was not included in the invitation. James Rutherford, it was understood, was so uncertain in his behaviour, that her presence was not desirable, and her father had returned in some anxiety. "What is the matter?" she asked, and the sound of her voice taught her more than she had wished to know, yet a joy that soared in agony came with the knowledge. "He's very bad." "Who?" Her fingers were torturing each other. "James. And Alexander--Alexander isn't like himself, Theresa." "Isn't he?" "No. He's--so morose. I hardly had a word with him. I own I was a little hurt." If her father had looked at her, he would have seen the strain of her smile as she dared herself to speak her fear. "Perhaps he is in love," she said. "Oh, I hope not. But"--he was reluctant--"I must confess that Janet--Janet hinted something, vague as herself. But I hope not." She spared him some of her aching pity for herself, and answered steadily: "He must be twenty-eight. Quite old enough to marry. People are very disagreeable when they are in love." But as she drove the nails into her palms, she was saying over and over again: "Thank God I didn't write to him. Thank God I didn't do it!" And if she had a prayer, it was that she might not dream about the hills. CHAPTER XX One day, when the summer of the next year had slipped into September, Theresa was five minutes late for work. She shut the door with a bang that had a sound of triumph in it, and her face had the flush of victory. Neville pointed to the clock. "Don't be fussy, Jack. This is the first time--and I've been up all night!" "It seems to have agreed with you. You've been looking like a wilted daffodil for months, and now you're like, well--what would you like to be like? A rose will do. Has your arch enemy died?" "No." She drew her chair noisily to the table. "No." "Need you be quite so emphatic in your movements?" "I must be. It's my form of self-expression, and I wish to express joy. I've got a niece, Jack, a real live niece. Isn't it glorious?" "Is it? Felicitations! If we tell the old gentleman, he'll have in a bottle of champagne."