'I never doubted it, even on seeming grounds,' said Annabel, quietly.

'You are justified, Bell. Well, as you asked me, I thought it better to tell you thus much. He leaves England morally as free as if he had never heard her name.'

'One more question. How do you _know_ that she has no assurance of his--affection?'

'He has himself told me that there has been not a word of that between them. The only other possible source was her sister, who has seen her.

I did not see Lydia before the interview, because it was repugnant to me to do so; their love for each other is something very sacred, and a stranger had no right to come between them before they met. But I subsequently saw Lydia in London. She soon spoke to me very freely, and I found that she almost hated me because she thought I was planning to marry her sister to Mr. Egremont. I also found out--I am old, you know, Bell, and can be very deceitful--that Lydia, no more than her sister, suspects serious feeling on his part. She scorned the suggestion of such a possibility. It is her greatest hope that Thyrza may yet marry Mr. Grail.'

'And what can you tell me of Thyrza herself?'

'She has been ill, but seems now in very fair health, The day she spent with Lydia evidently did her a vast amount of good. That natural affection is an invaluable resource to her, and, if I am not mistaken, it will be the means of recovering happiness for me. She is quiet, but not seriously depressed--sometimes she is even bright. The singing lessons have begun, and she enjoys them; I think a new interest has been given her.'

'Then I hope a very sad beautiful face will no longer haunt me.'

Thus did two ladies transact the most weighty part of their business after shaking hands for good-bye--an analogy to the proverbial postscript, perhaps.

The same evening there was a dinner-party at the Tyrrells'. Mr.

Newthorpe had, as usual, kept to his own room. Annabel went thither to sit with him for a while after the visitors were gone.

He had a poem that he wished to read to her; there was generally some scrap of prose or verse waiting for her when she went into the study.

To-night Annabel could not give the usual attention. Mr. Newthorpe noticed this, and, laying the book aside, made one or two inquiries about the company of the evening. She replied briefly, then, after hesitation, asked:

'Do you very much want to go to the Pilkingtons', father?'

He regarded her with amazement.

'I? Since when have I had a passionate desire to camp in strangers'

houses and eat strange flesh?'

'Then you do _not_ greatly care about it--even for the sake of meeting Mr. Lanyard?'

'Lanyard? Great Heavens! The fellow has done some fine things, but spiritual converse with him is quite enough for me.'

'Then will you please to discover all at once that you are really not so well as you thought, and that, after your season's dancing and theatre-going, you feel obliged to get hack either to Eastbourne or Ullswater as soon as possible?'

'The fact is, Bell, I haven't felt by any means up to the mark these last few days.'

'Dear father, don't say that! I am wrong to speak lightly of such things.'

'I only say it because you ask me to, sweet-and-twenty. In truth I feel very comfortable, but I shall be far more sure of remaining so at Eastbourne than at the Pilkingtons'.'

'Eastbourne, you think?'

'Nay, as you please, Bell.'

'Yes, Eastbourne again.' She came to her father and took his hands.

'I'm tired, tired, tired of it all, dear; tired and weary unutterably!

If ever we come to London again, let us tell nobody, and take quiet rooms in some shabby quarter, and go to the National Gallery, and to the marbles at the Museum, and all places where we are sure of never meeting a soul who belongs to the fashionable world. If we go to a concert, we'll sit in the gallery, among people who come because they really want to hear music--'

'_Eheu_! The stairs are portentous, Bell!'

'Never mind the stairs! Nay then, we won't go to public concerts at all, but I will play for you and myself, beginning when we like, and leaving off when we like, and using imagination--thank goodness, we both have some!--to make up for the defects. We'll go back to our books--oh! _you_ have never left them; but I, poor sinner that I am--!

Give me my Dante, and let me feel him between my hands! Where is Virgil?

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: