knew those two boats and
their routes, he knew that one had as certainly taken Lucian northward
as that the other had carried Evert Winthrop in precisely the opposite
direction. And this was not a country of railways, neither man could
make a rapid detour or retrace his steps by train; there was only the
river and the same deliberate boats upon which they were already
voyaging--in opposite directions! He was relieved, of course (he kept
assuring himself of this), that there was to be no encounter between the
two men. But he could not keep back a feeling of anger against
himself--hot, contemptuous anger--for ever having supposed for one
moment that there could be; could be--with Evert Winthrop for one of the
men! Or, for that matter, with Lucian Spenser for the other. The present
generation was a very poor affair; he was glad, at least, that nobody
could say _he_ belonged to it. And then the Doctor, who did not know
himself exactly what it was he wanted, kicked a fragment of coquina out
of his path so vindictively that it flew half-way across the garden,
and, taking out his handkerchief, he rubbed his hot, disappointed face
furiously. Since then a letter had come from Winthrop; he was hunting on
the Indian River.

When, therefore, the storm broke over East Angels on the evening of the
day upon which Margaret had taken again the reins of the household, she
and Garda were alone. After her visit to Mrs. Rutherford, whom she had
found quietly sleeping, with Celestine keeping watch beside her,
Margaret came back to the drawing-room, closing the door behind her.
Garda had made a great blaze of light-wood on the hearth, so that the
room was aglow with the brilliant flame; she was sitting on the rug
looking at it, and she had drawn forward a large, deep arm-chair for
Margaret.

"I am pretending it's a winter night at the North," she said, "and that
you and I have drawn close to the fire because it's so _cold_. Come and
sit down. I wonder if you're really well enough to be up, Margaret?"

"I am perfectly well," Margaret answered, sinking into the chair and
looking at the blaze.

The rain dashed against the window-panes, the wind whistled. "Isn't it
like the North?" demanded Garda.

Margaret shook her head. "Too many roses." The room was full of roses.

"They might have come from a conservatory," Garda suggested.

"It isn't like it," said Margaret, briefly.

"Margaret, what did you say to Lucian? It's two whole weeks; an