“She will spend to-night anyway,” said Mrs. Errol.

“And only to-night,” said Anne, with quiet firmness.  “You are all very kind, but—­”

“We want you,” interposed Lucas Errol.

She smiled, a quick smile that seemed reminiscent of happier days.  “Yes, and thank you for it.  But I must return in good time to-morrow.  I told my husband that I would do so.  He is spending the night in town, but he will be back to-morrow.”

Nap’s teeth were visible, hard clenched upon his lower lip as he listened, but still he said nothing.  There was something peculiarly forcible, even sinister, in his silence.  Not until Anne presently turned and directly addressed him did his attitude change.

“Will you take me to see the lake?” she said.  “It looked so charming as we drove up.”

He moved instantly to accompany her.  They went out together into the hard brightness of the winter morning.

“It is so good to be here,” Anne said a little wistfully.  “It is like a day in paradise.”

He laughed at that, not very pleasantly.

“It is indeed,” she persisted, “except for one thing.  Now tell me; in what have I offended?”

“You, Lady Carfax!” His brows met for an instant in a single, savage line.

“Is it only my fancy?” she said.  “I have a feeling that all is not peace.”

He stopped abruptly by the balustrade that bounded the terrace.  “The queen can do no wrong,” he said.  “She can hurt, but she cannot offend.”

“Then how have I hurt you, Nap?” she said.

The quiet dignity of the question demanded an answer, but it was slow in coming.  He leaned his arms upon the balustrade, pulling restlessly at the ivy that clung there.  Anne waited quite motionless beside him.  She was not looking at the skaters; her eyes had gone beyond them.

Abruptly at length Nap straightened himself.  “I am a fool to take you to task for snubbing me,” he said.  “But I am not accustomed to being snubbed.  Let that be my excuse.”

“Please tell me what you mean,” said Anne.

He looked at her.  “Do you tell me you do not know?”

“Yes,” she said.  Her clear eyes met his.  “Why should I snub you?  I thought you were a friend.”

“A friend,” he said, with emphasis.  “I thought so too.  But—­”

“Yes?” she said gently.

“Isn’t it customary with you to answer your friends when they write to you?” he asked.

Her expression changed.  A look of sharp pain showed for an instant in her eyes.  “My invariable custom, Nap,” she said very steadily.

“Then—­that letter of mine—­” he paused.

“When did you write it?”

“On the evening of the day you came here last—­the day I missed you.”

“It did not reach me,” she said, her voice very low.

He was watching her very intently.  “I sent it by messenger,” he said.  “I was hunting that day.  I sat down and wrote the moment I heard you had been.  Tawny Hudson took it.”