reet, enjoying that effect. Franks was going to
try it--but then came the revolution."

"For which--you mean, Mr. Warburton--I was to blame."

Rosamund spoke in a very low voice and a very sweet, her head bent.

"Why, yes," replied Will, in the tone of corresponding masculinity,
"though I shouldn't myself have used that word. You, no doubt, were the
cause of what happened, and so, in a sense, to blame for it. But I know
it couldn't be helped."

"Indeed, it couldn't," declared Rosamund, raising her eyes a little,
and looking across the river.

She had not in the least the air of a coquette. Impossible to associate
any such trivial idea with Rosamund's habitual seriousness of bearing,
and with the stamp of her features, which added some subtle charm to
regularity and refinement. By temper critical, and especially disposed
to mistrustful scrutiny by the present circumstances, Warburton was yet
unable to resist the softening influence of this quintessential
womanhood. In a certain degree, he had submitted to it during that
holiday among the Alps, then, on the whole, he inclined to regard
Rosamund impatiently and with slighting tolerance. Now that he desired
to mark her good qualities, and so justify himself in the endeavour to
renew her conquest of Norbert Franks, he exposed himself to whatever
peril might lie in her singular friendliness. True, no sense of danger
occurred to him, and for that very reason his state was the more
precarious.

"You have seen him lately at Ashtead?" was his next remark.

"More than once. And I can't tell you how glad we were to see each
other! I knew in a moment that he had really forgiven me--and I have
always wanted to be assured of that. How thoroughly good and
straightforward he is! I'm sure we shall be friends all our lives."

"I agree with you," he said, "that there's no better fellow living.
Till now, I can't see a sign of his being spoilt by success. And spoilt
in the worst sense, I don't think he ever will be, happen what may,
there's a simplicity about him which makes his safeguard. But, as for
his painting--well, I can't be so sure, I know little or nothing about
it, but it's plain that he no longer takes his work very seriously. It
pleases people--they pay large prices for it--where's the harm? Still,
if he had some one to keep a higher ideal before him--"

He broke off, with a vague gesture. Rosamund looked up at him.

"We must try," she said, with quiet earnestness.