arles
did not pretend to ignore the suspense they were all in pending
intelligence of the journey to London; he ate and drank and said
nothing. Agatha, disgusted with herself and with Gertrude, and undecided
whether to be disgusted with Trefusis or to trust him affectionately,
followed the example of her host. After dinner she accompanied him in
a series of songs by Schubert. This proved an aggravation instead of
a relief. Sir Charles, excelling in the expression of melancholy,
preferred songs of that character; and as his musical ideas, like those
of most Englishmen, were founded on what he had heard in church in his
childhood, his style was oppressively monotonous. Agatha took the first
excuse that presented itself to leave the piano. Sir Charles felt that
his performance had been a failure, and remarked, after a cough or two,
that he had caught a touch of cold returning from the station. Erskine
sat on a sofa with his head drooping, and his palms joined and hanging
downward between his knees. Agatha stood at the window, looking at the
late summer afterglow. Jane yawned, and presently broke the silence.

"You look exactly as you used at school, Agatha. I could almost fancy us
back again in Number Six."

Agatha shook her head.

"Do I ever look like that--like myself, as I used to be?"

"Never," said Agatha emphatically, turning and surveying the figure of
which Miss Carpenter had been the unripe antecedent.

"But why?" said Jane querulously. "I don't see why I shouldn't. I am not
so changed."

"You have become an exceedingly fine woman, Jane," said Agatha gravely,
and then, without knowing why, turned her attentive gaze upon Sir
Charles, who bore it uneasily, and left the room. A minute later he
returned with two buff envelopes in his hand.

"A telegram for you, Miss Wylie, and one for Chester." Erskine started
up, white with vague fears. Agatha's color went, and came again with
increased richness as she read:

"I have arrived safe and ridiculously happy. Read a thousand things
between the lines. I will write tomorrow. Good night."

"You may read it," said Agatha, handing it to Jane.

"Very pretty," said Jane. "A shilling's worth of attention--exactly
twenty words! He may well call himself an economist."

Suddenly a crowing laugh from Erskine caused them to turn and stare at
him. "What nonsense!" he said, blushing. "What a fellow he is! I don't
attach the slightest importance to this."

Agatha took a cor