his shop, varied only by Mrs. Wick’s cooking on Sundays.  One thing, however, interfered with his ease; seated opposite to Rosamund Elvan, he called to mind the fact that his toilet this morning had been of the most summary description; he was unshaven, and his clothing was precisely what he had worn all yesterday at the counter.  The girl’s eyes passed observantly over him now and then; she was critical of appearances, no doubt.  That his aspect and demeanour might be in keeping, he bore himself somewhat bluffly, threw out brief, blunt phrases, and met Miss Elvan’s glance with a confident smile.  No resentment of this behaviour appeared in her look or speech; as the meal went on, she talked more freely, and something of frank curiosity began to reveal itself in her countenance as she listened to him.

Ralph Pomfret having hobbled back to his study chair, to doze, if might be, for an hour or two, the others presently strolled out into the garden, where rustic chairs awaited them on the shadowy side.

“You have your pipe, I hope?” said the hostess, as Warburton stretched himself out with a sigh of content.

“I have.”

“And matches?”

“Yes—­No!  The box is empty.”

“I’ll send you some.  I have one or two things to see to indoors.”

So Will and Rosamund sat alone, gazing idly at the summer sky, hearing the twitter of a bird, the hum of insects, whilst the scents of flower and leaf lulled them to a restful intimacy.  Without a word of ceremony, Will used the matches that were brought him, and puffed a cloud into the warm air.  They were talking of the beauties of this neighbourhood, of the delightful position of the house.

“You often come out to see my uncle, I suppose,” said Rosamund.

“Not often, I’m seldom free, and not always in the humour.”

“Not in the humour for this?”

“It sounds strange, doesn’t it?” said Will, meeting her eyes.  “When I’m here, I want to be here always; winter or summer, there’s nothing more enjoyable—­in the way of enjoyment that does only good.  Do you regret Egypt?”

“No, indeed.  I shall never care to go there again.”

“Or the Pyrenees?”

“Have you seen them yet?” asked Rosamund.

Will shook his head.

“I remember your saying,” she remarked, “you would go for your next holiday to the Basque country.”

“Did I?  Yes—­when you had been talking much about it.  But since then I’ve had no holiday.”

“No holiday—­all this time?”

Rosamund’s brows betrayed her sympathy.

“How long is it since we were together in Switzerland?” asked Will, dreamily, between puffs.  “This is the second summer, isn’t it?  One loses count of time, there in London.  I was saying to Franks the other day—­”

He stopped, but not abruptly; the words seemed to murmur away as his thoughts wandered.  Rosamund’s eyes were for a moment cast down.  But for a moment only; then she fixed them upon him in a steady, untroubled gaze.