It was the second time she had been asked the question to-day.  A faint smile crossed her face.

“Well?” she said again.

“I mean,” he answered with a nervous laugh, “I don’t like to see it—­ and—­I meant, if I could help you—­”

“To run away?  Will you help me to run away?” Her eyes suddenly blazed upon him, and as she bent forward, and almost hissed the words, he involuntarily drew back a step.

“Well,” he stammered, “he’s a good fellow, really, is your husband—­ he’s been very good to me and all that—­”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, turning away, “I thought so.  Come, we are wasting time.”

“Stop!” cried Sam.

But she had passed swiftly down the sloping deck and dropped into the boat without his assistance.  He followed unsteadily, untied the painter, and jumped down after her.  They rowed for some time in silence after the retreating picnickers.  Before they came abreast of the hindmost boat, however, Sam spoke—­

“Look here.  I can’t help myself, and that’s the truth.  If you want to run away I’ll help you.”  He groaned inwardly as he said it.

She made no reply, but kept her eyes fixed on his face, as if weighing his words.  Nor, beyond a cool “Good-night” at parting on the quay, did another word pass between them.

“What luck?” asked the Honourable Frederic as his wife entered the drawing-room of “The Bower.”  He was stretched in an arm-chair before the fire, and turned with a glance of some anxiety at her entrance.

She looked about her wearily, took off her hat, tossed it across to a table, and, sinking into the armchair opposite, began to draw off her gloves.

“I’m sick to death of all this, me dear—­of ‘the Cause,’ of Brady, of these people, of meself.”

Her face wore a grey look that made her seem a full ten years older.

“Won’t you include me in the list, my love?” asked her husband amiably.

“I would,” she replied, “only I’ve already said as much twice this very afternoon.”

She laughed a fatigued little laugh, and looked around her again.  The drawing-room had greatly changed since first we visited it with Admiral Buzza, and the local tradesmen regarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys’ account with some complacency as they thought of payment after Midsummer.  For the strangers were not of the class that goes to the Metropolis or to the Co-operative Stores; from the outset they had announced a warm desire to benefit the town of Troy.  This pretty drawing-room was one of the results, and it only wanted a certain number of cheques from the Honourable Frederic to make the excellence of the arrangement complete.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys took a leisurely survey of the room while her husband awaited information.

“The pote is hooked,” she said at last, “an’ so’s Master Sam.”

“The poet is our first card,” replied her husband, searching his pocket and producing a letter.  “The Maryland should be here to-morrow or next day.  Upon my word, Nellie, I don’t want to ask questions, but you’ve done exceedingly well.”