“Was she so very different from me,—­in figure, I mean?”

“No.  Why do you ask?  Shall we not join your brother on the terrace?”

“Not till I have answered the question you put me a moment ago.  You wished to know my requirements.  One of the most important you have already fulfilled.  You have given your servants a half-holiday and by so doing ensured to us full liberty of action.  What else I need in the attempt I propose to make, you will find listed in this memorandum.”  And taking a slip of paper from her bag, she offered it to him with a hand, the trembling of which he would have noted had he been freer in mind.

As he read, she watched him, her fingers nervously clutching her throat.

“Can you supply what I ask?” she faltered, as he failed to raise his eyes or make any move or even to utter the groan she saw surging up to his lips.  “Will you?” she impetuously urged, as his fingers closed spasmodically on the paper, in evidence that he understood at last the trend of her daring purpose.

The answer came slowly, but it came.  “I will.  But what—­”

Her hand rose in a pleading gesture.

“Do not ask me, but take Arthur and myself into the garden and show us the flowers.  Afterwards, I should like a glimpse of the sea.”

He bowed and they joined Arthur who had already begun to stroll through the grounds.

Violet was seldom at a loss for talk even at the most critical moments.  But she was strangely tongue-tied on this occasion, as was Roger himself.  Save for a few observations casually thrown out by Arthur, the three passed in a disquieting silence through pergola after pergola, and around beds gorgeous with every variety of fall flowers, till they turned a sharp corner and came in full view of the sea.

“Ah!” fell in an admiring murmur from Violet’s lips as her eyes swept the horizon.  Then as they settled on a mass of rock jutting out from the shore in a great curve, she leaned towards her host and softly whispered: 

“The promontory?”

He nodded, and Violet ventured no farther, but stood for a little while gazing at the tumbled rocks.  Then, with a quick look back at the house, she asked him to point out his father’s window.

He did so, and as she noted how openly it faced the sea, her expression relaxed and her manner lost some of its constraint.  As they turned to re-enter the house, she noticed an old man picking flowers from a vine clambering over one end of the piazza.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Our oldest servant, and my father’s own man,” was Roger’s reply.  “He is picking my father’s favourite flowers, a few late honeysuckles.”

“How fortunate!  Speak to him, Mr. Upjohn.  Ask him how your father is this evening.”

“Accompany me and I will; and do not be afraid to enter into conversation with him.  He is the mildest of creatures and devoted to his patient.  He likes nothing better than to talk about him.”