Gilbert laughed.

‘That’s more than I can tell.’

’But that isn’t all.  She said I might go in and look about if I liked.  And I thought I would—­did I do wrong?’

She saw a shade of disappointment on his face.  But he said: 

‘Not at all.  Did you go over all the rooms?’

’Yes.  But there’s something else.  I went into those school-rooms upstairs, never thinking there was any one there, because the old woman told me there wasn’t.  But there was—­and it was Mr. Egremont.’

‘Really?  Did he knew who you were?’

‘I told him, Gilbert.’

He laughed again, and there was a look of pride in his eyes.

‘Well, there’s nothing very dreadful yet.  And did he speak nicely?’

‘Yes, very nicely.  And when I went away, he shook hands.’

’It’s a very queer thing that you happened to go just to. day.  That’s exactly where I meant to take you this afternoon.  I’m rather disappointed.’

’I’m very sorry.  But couldn’t I go with you again?  We shall be alone this time:  Mr. Egremont said he was just going.’

‘It won’t tire you?’

’Oh, but I should like to go!  I made up my mind which’ll be Lyddy’s room.  I wonder whether you’ll guess the same.’

‘Come along, then!’

CHAPTER XIV

MISTS

Paula Tyrrell was married at Easter.  Convenience dictated this speed —­in other words, Paula resolved to commence the season as Mrs. Dalmaine and in a house of her own.  Mr. Dalmaine had pointed out the advantage of using the Easter recess.  As there was scarcely time to select and make ready an abode for permanence, it was decided to take a house in Kensington, which friends of the Tyrrells desired to let for the year.

Annabel was not present at the wedding.  It was the second week in March before Mr. Newthorpe felt able to leave Ullswater, and Annabel had little mind to leave him for such a purpose immediately after their establishment at Eastbourne.  Indeed, she would rather not have attended the wedding under any circumstances.

Her father had been gravely ill.  There was organic disease, and there was what is vaguely called nervous breakdown; it was too clear that Mr. Newthorpe must count upon very moderate activity either of mind or body henceforth.  He himself was not quite unprepared for this collapse; he accepted it with genial pessimism.  Fate had said that his life was to result in nothing—­nothing, that is, from the point of view of his early aspirations.  Yet there was Annabel, and in her the memory of his life’s passion.  As he lay in silence through the days when spring combated with winter, he learned acquiescence; after all, he was among the happier of men, for he could look back upon a few days of great joy, and forward without ignoble anxiety.