“He’s very honest about it,” said Warburton.  “Makes no pretences—­ calls his painting a trick, and really feels surprised, I’m sure, that he’s so successful.”

“Poor Norbert!  A good lad, a good lad.  I wonder—­do you think if I wrote a line, mentioning, by the way, that Rosamund’s here, do you think he’d come?”

The speaker accompanied his words with an intimate glance.  Will averted his eyes, and gazed for a moment at the sunny landscape.

“How long will Miss Elvan stay?” he asked.

“Oh, as long as she likes.  We are very glad to have her.”

Their looks met for an instant.

“A pity, a pity!” said Ralph, shaking his head and smiling.  “Don’t you think so?”

“Why, yes.  I’ve always thought so.”

Will knew that this was not strictly the truth.  But in this moment he refused to see anything but the dimly suggested possibility that Franks might meet again with Rosamund Elvan, and again succumb to her charm.

“Heaven forbid!” resumed Ralph, “that one should interfere where lives are at stake!  Nothing of that, nothing of that.  You are as little disposed for it as I am.  But simply to acquaint him with the fact—?”

“I see no harm.  If I met him—?”

“Ah!  To be sure.  It would be natural to say—­”

“I owe him a visit,” remarked Will.

They talked of other things.  All at once Warburton had become aware that he was hungry; he had not broken his fast to-day.  Happily, the clock on the mantelpiece pointed towards noon.  And at this moment there sounded voices within the house, followed by a tap at the study door which opened, admitting Mrs. Pomfret.  The lady advanced with hospitable greeting; homely of look and speech, she had caught her husband’s smile, and something of his manner—­testimony to the happiness of a long wedded life.  Behind her came the figure of youth and grace which Warburton’s eyes expected; very little changed since he last saw it, in the Valley of Trient, Warburton was conscious of an impression that the young lady saw him again with pleasure.  In a minute or two, Mrs. Pomfret and her niece had left the room, but Warburton still saw those pure, pale features, the emotional eyes and lips, the slight droop of the head to one side.  Far indeed—­so he said within himself—­from his ideal; but, he easily understood, strong in seductiveness for such a man as Franks, whom the old passion had evidently left lukewarm in his thought of other women.

The bell gave a welcome summons to lunch—­or dinner, as it was called in this household of simple traditions.  Helped by his friend’s arm, Ralph managed to hobble to table; he ate little, and talked throughout the meal in his wonted vein of cheerful reflection.  Will enjoyed everything that was set before him; the good, wholesome food, which did credit to Mrs. Pomfret’s housekeeping, had a rare savour after months of dining in the little parlour behind