“I could not stay indoors,” she said, as she turned by my side, “although I have an old aunt and some very uninteresting visitors to entertain.  Besides, I have news!  My father is coming down to-day, and I think some of the others.  We have just had a telegram.”

“I am glad,” I answered.  “I have just finished my work, and I want some more.”

“You are insatiable,” she declared, smiling.  “You have written for three days, days and nights too, I believe, and you look like a ghost.  You ought to take a rest now.  You ought to want one, at any rate.”

Then the smile faded from her lips, and the anxiety of a sudden thought possessed her.

“I have not heard a word from Colonel Ray,” she said.  “It terrifies me to think that he may have told my father about Blenavon.”

“You must insist upon it that he does not,” I declared.  “Your brother has left England, has he not?”

“He is at Ostend.”

“Then Colonel Ray will keep his word,” I assured her.  “Besides, you have written to him, have you not?”

“I have written,” she answered.  “Still, I am afraid.  He will do what he thinks right, whatever it may be.”

“He will respect your wishes,” I said.

She smiled a little bitterly.

“He is not an easy person to influence,” she murmured.  “I doubt whether my wishes, even my prayers, would weigh with him a particle against his own judgment.  And he is severe—­very severe.”

I said nothing, and we walked for some time in silence.

“Next week,” she said abruptly, “I must go back to London.”

It was too sudden!  I could not keep back the little exclamation of despair.  She walked for some time with her head turned away from me, as though something on the dark clear horizon across the waters had fascinated her, but I caught a glimpse of her face, and I knew that my secret had escaped me.  Whether I was glad or sorry I could not tell.  My thoughts were all in hopeless confusions.  When she spoke, there was a certain reserve in her tone.  I knew that things would never again be exactly the same between us.  Yet she was not angry!  I hugged that thought to myself.  She was startled and serious, but she was not angry.

“One season is very much like another,” she said, “but it is not possible to absent oneself altogether.  Then afterwards there is Cowes and Homburg, and I always have a plan for at least three weeks in Scotland.  I believe we shall close Rowchester altogether.”

“The Duke?” I asked.

“He never spends the summer here,” she answered.  “We are generally together after July, so perhaps,” she added, “you may have to endure more of my company than you think.”

She looked at me with a faint, provoking smile.  How dare she?  I was master of myself now, and I answered her coldly.

“I shall be very sorry to leave here,” I said.  “I hope if my work lasts so long that I shall be able to go on with it at the ‘Brand.’”