“I thank you,” she answered quietly.  “You will let me know when you are ready to take me back.”

“Have I offended you?” he asked, as they rose from the table.  “I am clumsy, I know, and the words do not come readily to my mouth.  But after all, you must understand.”

“Yes,” she said sadly, “I do understand.”

They went down to the beach and he helped her into the boat.  Her maid sat by her side, and he rowed them across with a few powerful strokes.

“Storm and sunshine,” he remarked, “follow one another here as swiftly as in any corner of the world.  Yesterday we had wind and thunder and rain.  To-day, look!  The sky is cloudless, the birds are singing everywhere upon the marshes, the waves can do no more than ripple in upon the sands.  Will you walk across the marshes, Miss Jeanne, or will you come to the village and wait while I send for a carriage?”

“We will walk,” she answered.  “It may be for the last time.”

The maid fell behind.  Andrew and his companion, who seemed smaller and slimmer than ever by his side, started on their tortuous way, here and there turning to the right and to the left to follow the course of some tidal stream, or avoid the swampy places.  The faint odour of wild lavender was mingled with the brackish scent of the sea.  The ground was soft and spongy beneath their feet, and a breeze as soft as a caress blew in their faces.  Up before them always, gaunt and bare, surrounded by its belts of weather-stricken trees, stood the Red Hall.  Andrew looked toward it gloomily.

“Do you wonder,” he asked, “that a man is sometimes depressed who is born the heir to a house like that, and to fortunes very similar?”

“Are you poor?” she asked him.  “I thought perhaps you were, as your brother tried to make love to me.”

He frowned impatiently at her words.

“For Heaven’s sake, child,” he said, “don’t be so cynical!  Don’t fancy that every kind word that is spoken to you is spoken for your wealth.  There are sycophants enough in the world, Heaven knows, but there are men there as well.  Give a few the credit of being honest.  Try and remember that you are—­”

He looked at her and away again toward the sea.

“That you are,” he repeated, “young enough and attractive enough to win kind words for your own sake.”

“Then,” she whispered, leaning towards him, “I do not think that I am very fortunate.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” she answered, “one person who might say kind things to me, and whom my money would never influence a little bit in the world, does not say them.”

“Are you sure,” he asked, “that you believe that there is any one in the world who would be content to take you without a penny?”

She shook her head.

“Not that,” she said sadly.  “I am not what you call conceited enough for that, but I would like to believe that I might have a kind word or two on my own account.”