Bored! Sick of waiting so long. It was
_your_ fault. You would go on."

"Nonsense. It's more than that. What has happened to her?"

"Nothing; I told you so. She has serious bouts sometimes. She has one
now. So would you have, if you sat in this wind, getting chilled
through for an hour on end."

"I am sorry to hear that. If it has not already happened, it must be
still before her. It is written in her face."

"Piers, how tiresome! Leave my Vanna alone. _What_ is in her face?"

"Tragedy!" said Piers Rendall.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"THE HAPPY LAND."

The next event was the receipt of a letter from Mr Rendall's _mere_,
containing an invitation for lunch. Jean read it aloud to Vanna as they
sat together on the tiny lawn where the postman had been intercepted.

"... Please excuse the formality of a call. I am getting old, and
these hilly roads try my nerves. We hope you will all come over to
lunch on Wednesday, at one o'clock. I shall be pleased to meet Miss
Miggs again, and to make the acquaintance of your young friend. The
carriage shall call at twelve-thirty. Believe me, my dear Jean, Your
attached friend--"

"Good for her! We accept with pleasure, of course."

"I don't."

"Vanna! How disagreeable you can be when you try. Why were you so
bleak and crusty to Piers yesterday? I wanted you to be nice."

"You told me to keep out of the way, and I did it. I didn't take to
him, nor he to me."

"Humph! I don't know," Jean considered, her chin resting upon the cup
of her hand. "He was a trifle quelled to find you here--that was
natural, for he thought I would be alone; but he was impressed. When we
came back from our walk you were staring out to sea with such big, sad
eyes, and he looked at you, and wondered. You impressed him, Vanna."

"You are not to tell him! I forbid you to tell him about me!"

Vanna spoke with a headlong impetuosity which surprised herself. She
did not understand why she shrank from the idea of Piers Rendall
listening to an account of her family history; but the prospect stung,
and she could not control her impatience. Jean looked at her with quiet
reproach.

"I should not dream of such a thing. I shall _never_ speak of it,
never--except at your express request."

"I'm sorry, dear. I'm very irritable these days. Write your
acceptance, and I'll do my utmost to behave. What is she like--this
mamma? A female Piers?"

"Not one bit. A little shrinking cr