She could not, of course.  She had known that she could not even as—­ with a glance around her to make sure she was unobserved—­she had made the effort.  Time had taken away the old Tilda with the old ’Dolph.  She was a girl grown, a girl with limbs firmed by outdoor sports and country living.  And she had learnt much—­so much, that to have learnt it she had necessarily forgotten much.  You or I, meeting her this morning for the first time, had made no doubt of her being a young lady of rather exceptional breeding.

She looked back to the spot where ’Dolph rested among dogs of loftiest race.  She knew that Sir Elphinstone and Miss Sally were discussing her while they rode, and she could hear two words Sir Elphinstone let fall.  She repeated them to herself—­“Nobody’s child.”

She did not remember that she had once thanked her gods for it.

The rural postman carried a brass cowhorn, and made a practice of sounding it as he mounted the road leading to Culvercoombe.  Its note, sounding through the clear morning air, aroused Tilda from her brown study, and she ran lightly up the slope to catch him on the upper terrace.

He handed her the day’s mail—­a dozen letters or more, and among them one addressed to her.  In the whole world was but one handwriting that ever came for her; recognisable always, though with each post it grew firmer in character.

The envelope bore an Italian stamp and a Neapolitan postmark.  Arthur Miles was a midshipman now, soon to be a second-lieutenant; his ship, the Indomitable, attached to the Mediterranean fleet.  She broke the seal. . . .  The letter was a boyish one, full of naval slang, impersonal, the sort of letter growing boys write to their mothers.  But Arthur Miles had no mother; and if he wrote to his father, Tilda knew that he wrote more formally.

“We were sent up here,” the letter said, “on getting word that Vesuvius meant to erupt badly, and that we might be useful.  But the show seems to be hanging fire, and we may be ordered back to Malta at any moment.  Half a dozen of us made up a picnic yesterday, to have a look at the crater at close quarters.  We cooked some eggs on it, to show our unconcern, and while we were cooking them up came an American, who had pitched camp in the foolhardiest spot.  Guess why—­to paint it!  Guess who he was—­why, Jessup!  Do you remember Jessup?  He introduced himself, and I knew him at once; but he did not know me, and I did not enlighten him.  He said that the Art of the Future must depend on the development of wireless telegraphy, and that in the meanwhile he was just marking time with earthquakes.”

Tilda, having read thus far, looks up at the sound of horses’ hoofs.  Miss Sally and Sir Elphinstone are returning from their ride.

“And, after all, why not?” Miss Sally is saying.

“The very mistake his father made!”

“Homoeopathy is one of my fads, remember.”