“No, indeed, indeed, Edmund, it wasn’t that.  I never meant that; I knew you were never that, do believe me.”

“Well, if I do believe you so far, what did you think?”

Rose let her book lie on her knee and leant over it with her hands clasped.  “I thought that perhaps,” she faltered, “you had been too long in the habit of doing nothing much, and that you had grown a little lazy—­at least, I didn’t really think so, but that idea has struck me.”

She came and stood by him.  “Oh, Edmund, why do you make me say things when I don’t want to, when I hate saying them, when they are not really true at all.”  She was deeply moved, and he felt that in one sense she was in his power.  He gave a bitter sigh.

“Can I make you say whatever I like?” Her face flushed and a different look, one of fear he thought, came into her troubled eyes.  “Then say after me, ’I am very sorry I did not understand by intuition that you were too blind to shoot the Boers, and that I was so silly as to think for a moment that you had ever wasted your time or been the least little bit lazy.’”

“No, I won’t say anything at all”—­she held out both hands to him—­“except what the children say, ’let us just go on with the game and pretend that that part never happened.’”

And though Rose was still embarrassed, still inclined to fear she had hurt him, what might have been a little cloud was pierced by sunshine.  “How ridiculously glad she is that I’m not a coward!” He, too, in spite of annoyance, felt more hopeful than he had been for a long time.

At Genoa they got long delayed letters and papers.  In one of these a short paragraph announced the death of Madame Danterre.  “It is believed,” were the concluding words, “that she has left her large fortune to her daughter, Miss Mary Dexter.”  That was the first reminder to Rose that the interlude of mere enjoyment was almost over.  She was not going to repine; it had been very good.  Coming on board after reading this with a quiet patient look, a look habitual to her during the last two years, but which had faded under the sunshine of happy days, Rose saw Edmund Grosse standing alone in the stern of the boat with a number of letters in his left hand pressed against his leg, looking fixedly at the water.  The yacht was already standing out to sea, but Edmund had not glanced a farewell at beautiful and yet prosperous Genoa, a city that no modern materialism can degrade.  Like a young bride of the sea, she is decked by things old and things new, and her marble palaces do not appear to be insulted by the jostling of modern commerce.  All things are kept fresh and pure on that wonderful coast.  Something had happened, of that Rose was sure; but what?