“I beg that you won’t reply to this letter.  I shall work on, and hope to be able to see you again before long.”

Warburton threw the sheet of paper on to the table, as if dismissing it from his thoughts.  He began to walk about the room Then he stood motionless for ten minutes.  “What’s the matter with me?” this was the current of his musing.  “I used to think myself a fellow of some energy; but the truth is, I know my mind about nothing, and I’m at the mercy of every one who chooses to push me this way or that.”

He took up the letter again, and was about to re-read it, but suddenly altered his mind, and thrust the folded paper into his pocket.

Eight days went by.  Will had a visit from Sherwood, who brought news that the whisky distiller had seemed a little better, but could not possibly live more than a week or two.  As regards the vegetarian colony all went well; practical men were at work on the details of the scheme; Sherwood toiled for ten hours a day at secretarial correspondence.  Next day, there came a postcard from Rosamund.

“Work ready to show you.  Could you come and have a cup of tea to-morrow afternoon?”

At the conventional hour Will went to Oakley Crescent.  Not, however, as he had expected, to find Miss Elvan alone; with her sat Mrs. Pomfret, in London for the afternoon.  The simple and kindly lady talked as usual, but Will, nervously observant, felt sure that she was not quite at her ease.  On the other hand, nothing could have been more naturally graceful than Rosamund’s demeanour; whether pouring out tea, or exhibiting her water-colours, or leading the talk to subjects of common interest, she was charming in her own way, a way which borrowed nothing from the every-day graces of the drawing-room.  Her voice, always subdued, had a range of melodious expression which caressed the ear, no matter how trifling the words she uttered, and at moments its slightly tremulous murmur on rich notes suggested depths of sentiment lying beneath this familiar calm.  To her aunt she spoke with a touch of playful affection; when her eyes turned to Warburton, their look almost suggested the frankness of simple friendship, and her tone was that of the largest confidence.

Never had Will felt himself so lulled to oblivion of things external; he forgot the progress of time, and only when Mrs. Pomfret spoke of the train she had to catch, made an effort to break the lazy spell and take his leave.

On the morrow, and on the day after that, he shirked business during the afternoon, excusing himself with the plea that the heat of the shop was insufferable.  He knew that neglect of work was growing upon him, and again he observed that Allchin seemed rather pleased than vexed by these needless absences.  The third day saw him behind the counter until five o’clock, when he was summoned as usual to the back parlour to tea.  Laying before him a plate of watercress and slices of brown bread and butter, Mrs. Allchin, a discreetly conversational young woman, remarked on the continued beauty of the weather, and added a hope that Mr. Jollyman would not feel obliged to remain in the shop this evening.