“Whatever do people write to you so much for?” she asked one morning, watching the stream of letters flow out of the post bag.

Wingrave was silent for a moment.  Her question brought a sudden and sharp sting of remembrance.  Juliet knew him only as Sir Wingrave Seton.  She knew nothing of Mr. Wingrave, millionaire.

“Advertisements, a good many of them,” he said.  “I must send for Aynesworth some day to go through them all.”

“What fun!” she exclaimed.  “Do send for him!  He thinks that I am staying with Miss Pengarth, and I haven’t written once since I got here!”

To Wingrave, it seemed that a chill had somehow stolen into the hot summer morning.  His feet were very nearly upon the earth again.

“I forgot,” he said, “that Aynesworth was—­a friend of yours.  He came and saw you often in London?”

She smiled reflectively.

“He has been very, very kind,” she answered.  “He was always that, from the first time I saw you both.  Do you remember?  It was down in the lower gardens.”

“Yes!” he answered, “I remember quite well.”

“He was very kind to me then,” she continued, “and you—­well, I was frightened of you.”  She stopped for a moment and laughed.  Her eyes were full of amazed reminiscence.  “You were so cold and severe!  I never could have dreamed that, after all, it was you who were going to be the dearest, most generous friend I could ever have had!  Do you know, Walter—­I mean Mr. Aynesworth—­isn’t very pleased with me just now?”

“Why not?”

“He cannot understand why I will not tell him my guardian’s name.  I think it worries him.”

“You would like to tell him?” Wingrave asked.

She nodded.

“I think so,” she answered.

Wingrave said no more, but after breakfast he went to his study alone.  Juliet found him there an hour later, sitting idly in front of his table.  His great pile of correspondence was still untouched.  She came and sat on the edge of the table.

“What are we going to do this morning, please?” she asked.

Wingrave glanced towards his letters.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I must spend the day here!”

She looked at him blankly.

“Not really!” she exclaimed.  “I thought that we were going to walk to Hanging Tor?”

Wingrave took up a handful of letters and let them fall through his fingers.  He had all the sensations of a man who is awakened from a dream of Paradise to face the dull tortures of a dreary and eventless life.  His eyes were set in a fixed state.  An undernote of despair was in his tone.

“You know we arranged it yesterday,” she continued eagerly, “and if you are going to send for Mr. Aynesworth, you needn’t bother about these letters yourself, need you?”

He turned and regarded her deliberately.  Her forehead was wrinkled a little with disappointment, her brown eyes were filled with the soft light of confident appeal.  Tall and elegantly slim, there was yet something in the graceful lines of her figure which reminded him forcibly that the days of her womanhood had indeed arrived.