As her white fingers flew with the glimmering needle she reflected on conditions as she had left them a week ago.  A week ago, between him and her the most perfect of understandings existed; and the consciousness of it she had carried with her every moment in the country—­amid the icy tumble of the surf, on long vigorous walks over the greening hills where wild moorland winds whipped like a million fairy switches till the young blood fairly sang, pouring through her veins.

Since that—­some time within the week, something evidently had happened to him, here in the city while she had been away.  What?

As she bent above the fine linen garment on her knee, needle flying, a sudden memory stirred coldly—­the recollection of her ride with Rosamund; and instinctively her clear eyes flew open and she raised her head, turning directly toward him a disturbed gaze he did not this time evade.

In silence their regard lingered; then, satisfied, she smiled again, saying:  “Have I been away so long that we must begin all over, Captain Selwyn?”

“Begin what, Eileen?”

“To remember that the silence of selfish preoccupation is a privilege I have not accorded you?”

“I didn’t mean to be preoccupied—­”

“Oh, worse and worse!” She shook her head and began to thread the needle.  “I see that my week’s absence has not been very good for you.  I knew it the moment you came in with all that guilty absent-minded effrontery which I have forbidden.  Now, I suppose I shall have to recommence your subjection.  Ring for tea, please.  And, Susanne”—­speaking in French and gathering up a fluffy heap of mended summer waists—­“these might as well be sent to the laundress—­thank you, little one; your sewing is always beautiful.”

The small maid, blushing with pleasure, left the room, both arms full of feminine apparel; Selwyn rang for tea, then strolled back to the window, where he stood with both hands thrust into his coat-pockets, staring out at the sunset.

A primrose light bathed the city.  Below, through the new foliage of the Park, the little lake reflected it in tints of deeper gold and amber where children clustered together, sailing toy ships.  But there was no wind; the tiny sails and flags hung motionless, and out and in, among the craft becalmed, steered a family of wild ducks, the downy yellow fledglings darting hither and thither in chase of gnats, the mother bird following in leisurely solicitude.

And, as he stood there, absently intent on sky and roof and foliage, her soft bantering voice aroused him; and turning he found her beside him, her humorous eyes fixed on his face.

“Suppose,” she said, “that we go back to first principles and resume life properly by shaking hands.  Shall we?”

He coloured up as he took her hand in his; then they both laughed at the very vigorous shake.

“What a horribly unfriendly creature you can be,” she said.  “Never a greeting, never even a formal expression of pleasure at my return—­”