On arriving in London, Vaughan found his secretary with the usual heaps of letters. One envelope, addressed in a large and rather infantine hand, was put aside for him. The note ran—

He instantly wrote back—

He waited a moment, and then added—

"I will turn up to-morrow at four. Try not to forget me till then."

For the rest of the day he was in high spirits. The letter seemed to keep him up through the various little bothers of the day. He had been going to France for the summer. He admitted to himself that this semi-flirtation was keeping him in England. He didn't like the idea of going away very long from the possibility of turning up at the "Bald-faced Stag."

The explanation Harry gave about Johnson's telegram satisfied Valentia for the time, as he declined the invitation to Cowes, but the incident left an uneasy feeling in Val's mind. She could not bear to own to herself that he was deceiving her, and he hadn't the courage to give it away yet, not that he cared so very much about hurting her, but he was happier at the Green Gate than anywhere else. He liked the house, the atmosphere, and Romer; but what kept him most was, of course, that curious charm Valentia had for him, which was perhaps stronger than ever because he knew that the end was not far off. He often thought he was a fool not to have taken the opportunity to break it off on this occasion. He couldn't stand the idea of not seeing her, just because of the way her hair grew on her forehead! So low, and in such thick waves! Alec Walmer's hair, also fair, was thin and unmeaning. She had a low forehead, and yet the hair began high up. In the evening when it was carefully arranged, and the iron had entered into it, it looked like a stiff transformation, even worse than when left to nature.

But of course, in spite of the reconciliation, a residue of mistrust remained, and on his side a sensation of restlessness which left him irritable; less amiable and pleasant than usual.

They were sitting on the little terrace. He was smoking and reading the paper. He suddenly threw it down and said—

"How quiet you are, Val! Why don't you talk?"

"I don't think I've got anything to say."

"You seem depressed," he said, rather aggressively.

"I feel a little depressed."

Harry gave expression to the usual injustice of the unfaithful.

"What a mistake women make in being gloomy! How foolish it is. Shall I tell you the key of the whole situation between men and women?"

"Do."

"Well, dear, it's just—a smile. Never be dull, never be ill, never be depressed. Be gay—always gay. That's what men like—that's the one thing that they go out for and come in for—a smile."

"Your ideal of a woman seems to be a Cheshire cat," she answered, looking rather amused. "Your motto is, like the man in The Arcadians: Always Merry and Bright. Well, I'm sure there's a good deal in it. But I'm not usually accused of being a dreary person."

"Of course you're not; you're charming, lively, amusing, sympathetic. That's your great attraction, Val. But the last few days you seem rather to have lost it."

"You can hardly resent my feeling a little down, Harry. One or two little things that have happened lately have made me anxious."

"Never be anxious. You ought to trust, trust—always trust."

"Oh, that's all very well! That wire...."

"Are we going to have that all over again? I thought I'd explained." He assumed the air of a patient martyr.

"I know you explained all right. Well, I won't think about it any more. Don't be horrid, Harry.... Have you seen this week's Punch? There's something in it simply too heavenly—such a joke! Let me read it to you."

"It's very sweet of you—but do you ever realise——I wonder if it's ever struck you, Val, that men aren't always in the mood for heavenly jokes? There are times when one likes to think—to see life as it is—to discuss abstract things, even.""Oh! Well ... what do you think of Daphne's dress? Isn't it pretty? It was made by Ogburn, all out of nothing, in no time."

He looked at Daphne, who was sitting under a tree reading Cyril's last letter over again.

"It's all right. It suits her. I don't call that a serious subject."

"What subject would you like, then?"

"Well—Romer, for instance. Where is he?"

"Talking to the gardener about mowing. Do you want him? I'll call him if you like."

"Dear Val, it's not quite like you to be ironical to me.... You ought not to laugh at Romer either. I'm complex, perhaps—I know I am; but it jars on me when you do that."

She stared at him.

"Look here—I know I'm tiresome," said Harry, returning to his usual caressing manner. "Don't take any notice of it. It's—the weather, I think, or want of exercise. I'll go and improvise a little."

He pushed back his chair, and, with a parting look of forgiveness, he went into the house and began to improvise (rather dismally) a well-known funeral march. Or perhaps it was only a coincidence. Perhaps he would have thought of it if Chopin hadn't.

Harry was only musical by fits and starts, and generally either to impress some one or because he was out of temper. Val never regarded it as a good sign when he grappled with the Steinway.

In ten minutes he had grown tired of his mood of melody, and strolled into the rose garden with a book.

Yes, certainly Harry was restless.