“He is particular,” Sylvia said.

Somehow she could not bring herself to tell Mrs. Merston the actual cause of Guy’s illness.  She did not want to talk of it.  But Mrs. Merston was difficult to silence.

“Is it true that that scoundrel Kieff has been staying at Blue Hill Farm?” she asked next, still closely observant of her visitor’s face.

Sylvia looked at her with a touch of animation.  “I wonder why everyone calls him that,” she said.  “Yes, he has been with us.  He is a doctor, a very clever one.  I never liked him very much, but I often wondered what he had done to be called that.”

“Oh, I only know what they say,” said Mrs. Merston.  “I imagine he was in a large measure responsible for young Ranger’s fall from virtue in the first place—­and that of a good many besides.  He’s something of a vampire, so they say.  There are plenty of them about in this charming country.”

“How horrible!” murmured Sylvia, with a slight shudder as a vision of the motionless, onyx eyes which had so often watched her rose in her mind.

“You’re looking quite worn out,” remarked Mrs. Merston.  “Why did you let your husband drag you over here?  You had better stay the night and have a rest.”

But Sylvia hastened to decline this invitation with much decision.  “I couldn’t possibly do that, thank you.  There is so much to be seen to at home.  It is very kind of you, but please don’t suggest it to Burke!”

Mrs. Merston gave her an odd look.  “Do you always do as your husband tells you!” she said.  “What a mistake!”

Sylvia blushed very deeply.  “I think—­one ought,” she said in a low voice.

“How old-fashioned of you!” said Mrs. Merston.  “I don’t indulge mine to that extent.  Are you going to Brennerstadt for the races next month?  Or has the oracle decreed that you are to stay behind?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t know there were any.”  Sylvia looked out through the mauve-coloured twilight to where Burke stood talking with Merston by one of the hideous corrugated iron cattle-sheds.  The Merstons’ farm certainly did not compare favourably with Burke’s.  She could not actively condemn Mrs. Merston’s obvious distaste for all that life held for her.  So far as she could see, there was not a tree on the place, only the horrible prickly pear bushes thrusting out their distorted arms as if exulting in their own nakedness.

They had had their tea in front of the bungalow, if it could be dignified by such a name.  It was certainly scarcely more than an iron shed, and the heat within during the day was, she could well imagine, almost unbearable.  It was time to be starting back, and she wished Burke would come.  Her hostess’s scoffing reference to him made her long to get away.  Politeness, however, forbade her summarily to drop the subject just started.

“Do you go to Brennerstadt for the races?” she asked.