was
gone. And turning to the window he flung it far out into the darkness.

VIII

Now that she was gone, it was curious how little they spoke of her,
considering how long she had been with them. And they had from her but
one letter written to Sylvia, very soon after she left, ending: "Dad
sends his best respects, please; and with my love to you and Mr. Lennan,
and all the beasts.--NELL.

"Oliver is coming here next week. We are going to some races."

It was difficult, of course, to speak of her, with that episode of the
flower, too bizarre to be told--the sort of thing Sylvia would see out
of all proportion--as, indeed, any woman might. Yet--what had it really
been, but the uncontrolled impulse of an emotional child longing to
express feelings kindled by the excitement of that opera? What but a
child's feathery warmth, one of those flying peeps at the mystery of
passion that young things take? He could not give away that pretty
foolishness. And because he would not give it away, he was more than
usually affectionate to Sylvia.

They had made no holiday plans, and he eagerly fell in with her
suggestion that they should go down to Hayle. There, if anywhere, this
curious restlessness would leave him. They had not been down to the old
place for many years; indeed, since Gordy's death it was generally let.

They left London late in August. The day was closing in when they
arrived. Honeysuckle had long been improved away from that station
paling, against which he had stood twenty-nine years ago, watching the
train carrying Anna Stormer away. In the hired fly Sylvia pressed close
to him, and held his hand beneath the ancient dust-rug. Both felt the
same excitement at seeing again this old home. Not a single soul of the
past days would be there now--only the house and the trees, the owls
and the stars; the river, park, and logan stone! It was dark when they
arrived; just their bedroom and two sitting-rooms had been made ready,
with fires burning, though it was still high summer. The same old
execrable Heatherleys looked down from the black oak panellings. The
same scent of apples and old mice clung here and there about the
dark corridors with their unexpected stairways. It was all curiously
unchanged, as old houses are when they are let furnished.

Once in the night he woke. Through the wide-open, uncurtained windows
the night was simply alive with stars, such swarms of them swinging
and trembling up there; and, fa