‘You return to-morrow?’ he asked, suddenly.

’I think so.  You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home again.’

’A promise to be cheerful wouldn’t mean much.  But it does mean much that I can think of what you have said to-day’

Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise.  It was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the flowing outlines of her figure.  Why could he not say to her, ‘I love you; give me your hands; give me your lips’?  Such words seemed impossible.  Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched the grace of her movements, the light and shadow upon her features.  She had risen and come a step or two forward.

‘I think you look taller—­in that dress.’

The words rather escaped him than were spoken.  His need was to talk of common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel humanly.

Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.

‘Do I?  Do you like the dress?’

‘Yes.  It becomes you.’

‘Are you critical in such things?’

’Not with understanding.  But I should like to see you every day in a new and beautiful dress.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t afford it!’ was the laughing reply.

He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft fingers fired his blood.

‘Sidwell!’

It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood with his eyes on hers, her hand crushed in his.

‘Some day!’ she whispered.

If their lips met, the contact was so slight as to seem accidental; it was the mere timorous promise of a future kiss.  And both were glad of the something that had imposed restraint.

When Sidwell went up to her mother’s sitting-room, a servant had just brought tea.

‘I hear that Mr. Peak has been,’ said Mrs. Warricombe, who looked puffy and uncomfortable after her sleep.  ’Emma was going to take tea to the study, but I thought it unnecessary.  How could he know that we were here?’

‘I met him this morning on my way into the town.’

‘Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.’

‘He asked if he might.’

Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined Sidwell.

‘Oh!  And did he stay long?’

‘Not very long,’ replied Sidwell, who was in quiet good-humour.

’I think it would have been better if you had told him by the servant that I was not well enough to see callers.  You didn’t mention that he might be coming.’

Mrs. Warricombe’s mind worked slowly at all times, and at present she was suffering from a cold.

‘Why didn’t you speak of it, Sidwell?’

‘Really—­I forgot,’ replied the daughter, lightly.

‘And what had he to say?’

‘Nothing new, mother.  Is your head better, dear?’