Heu! fuge crudeles terras, fuge litus avarum.

Is it quoted right?  Is it apropos?’

‘Savonarola’s word of fate.’

’Then mine too!  How have you been so patient with me?  A London season—­and I still have Homer to read!  Still have Sophocles for an unknown land!  My father, I have gone far, very far, astray, and you did not so much as rebuke me.’

’My dearest, it is infinitely better to hear you rebuke yourself.  Nor that, either.  A chapter in your education was lacking; now you can go on smoothly.’

‘Now read the poem over again, father.  I can hear it now.’

Paula came to the house next morning.  She and Annabel had seen very little of each other throughout the season, but, on the last two or three occasions of their meeting, Paula had betrayed a sort of timid desire to speak with more intimacy than was her wont.  Annabel was not eager in response, hut, in spite of that letter which you remember, she had always judged her cousin with much tolerance, and a suspicion that Paula Dalmaine was not quite so happy a person as Paula Tyrrell had been, inclined her to speak with gentleness.  They were alone together this morning in the drawing-room.

‘So you’re going to the Pilkingtons’,’ Paula said, when she had fluttered about a good deal.

‘No.  We have changed our minds.  We go back to Eastbourne.’

‘Ah!  How’s that, Bell?’

’We are a little tired of society, and father needs quietness again.  Where do you go?’

’To Scotland, with the Scalpers.  Lord Glenroich is going down with us.  He’s promised to teach me to shoot.’

Paula spoke of these arrangements with less gusto than might have been expected of her.  She was fidgety and absent.  Suddenly she asked: 

‘What has become of Mr. Egremont, Bell?’

’He has either gone, or is just going, to America, to live there, I believe, for some time.’

‘Oh, indeed!—­with anybody, I wonder?’

‘He has not told me anything of his affairs, Paula.’

‘Then you have seen him?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

’Don’t be cross with me, Bell.  I don’t mean anything.  I only wanted to know something true about him; I can hear lies enough whenever I choose.’

It was pathetic enough, because, for once, evidently sincere.  Annabel smiled and made no reply.  Then, with abrupt change of subject, Paula remarked: 

‘I think I shall come and see you at Eastbourne, if you’ll let me.’

‘I shall be glad.’

’No, you won’t exactly be glad, Bell—­but, of course, I know you couldn’t say you’ll be sorry.  Still, I shall come, for a day or two, all by myself.’

‘Come, and heartily welcome, Paula.’

’Well now, that does sound a little different, I don’t often hear people speak like that.’