“You wished to see me?” she asked; and again I was surprised, for I had supposed she would apologise for the delay to which I had been subjected.  Instead, she spoke almost as to a stranger.

“I had an appointment for this afternoon,” I reminded her, striving to keep my vexation from my voice.

“Oh, yes,” and she came a few steps into the room, but her face lost none of its coldness.  “I had forgotten.  It is not to speak of business?”

“No,” I said; “it is to speak of your going to friends of Mr. Swain and me—­for a time, at least.”

“You will thank your friends for me,” she answered, calmly; “but I have decided to remain here.”

“But—­but,” I stammered, taken aback at the finality of her tone, “do you think it wise?”

“Yes—­far wiser than going to people I do not know and who do not know me.”

“And safe,” I persisted; “do you think it safe?”

“Safe?” she echoed, looking at me in astonishment.  “Certainly.  What have I to fear?”

I had to confess that I myself did not know very clearly what she had to fear, so I temporised.

“Are you keeping the nurses?”

“No; I do not need them.  They left an hour ago.”

“But the servants,” I said, in a panic, “they are here?  They are going to stay?”

Again she looked at me.

“Your questions seem most extraordinary to me, Mr. Lester.  Of course the servants will stay.”

“And—­and the Hindus?” I blurted out.

“Yes, and the Hindus, as you call them.  This is their home.  It was my father’s wish.”

I gave it up; her manner indicated that all this was no concern of mine, and that my interference was a mere impertinence.  But I tried one parting shot.

“Mr. Swain is very anxious you should not stay here,” I said.  “He will be deeply grieved when he learns your decision.”

To this she made no answer, and, finding nothing more to say, sore at heart, and not a little angry and resentful, I started to leave the room.

“There is one thing more,” I said, turning back at the threshold.  “I shall have to go in to the city to-morrow, but I shall come out again in the evening.  Would it be convenient to have our business conference after dinner?”

“Yes,” she agreed; “that will do very well.”

“At eight o’clock, then?”

“I shall expect you at that time,” she assented; and with that I took my leave.

It was in a most depressed state of mind that I made my way back to Godfrey’s; and I sat down on the porch and smoked a pipe of bitter meditation.  For I felt that, somehow, Miss Vaughan was slipping away from me.  There had been a barrier between us to-day which had not been there before, a barrier of coldness and reserve which I could not penetrate.  Some hostile influence had been at work; in death, even more than in life, perhaps, her father’s will weighed upon her.  I could imagine how a feeling of remorse might grow and deepen, and urge her toward foolish and useless sacrifice.