disappointment, and in both looks and manner Peignton showed signs of
the mental strain through which he was passing. Cheerfulness forsook
him, he grew silent and preoccupied, only by the hardest struggle did he
prevent an outburst of actual ill-temper.

Looking back he realised that it was the intimacy of that week spent at
the Court a month before, which made the present condition so
unbearable. Then, day after day, Cassandra had sat alone by his side,
now working at her embroidery, and again dropping her thread, and
sitting with folded hands, while they talked together--that talk which
never jarred, never wearied, never seemed more than just begun. He had
tried at times to recall what exactly they had talked about during those
lengthening hours, but he could not remember. The subject had seemed of
so little importance, it had been but a vehicle to convey the inward
sympathy and understanding, an opportunity of hearing Cassandra's voice,
and watching the lights pass over her beautiful, vivid face. It had
been a happy face in those days, but it was not happy to-day. A look of
strain was upon it which corresponded to his own; there were moments of
suspense when he sensed that she also was holding her breath; moments of
exasperated check, when his own anger leapt to meet an answering flame.

On the morning of the day on which Teresa was to arrive, Peignton made a
determined revolt. Breakfast was over, and the five members of the
party had strolled on to the verandah to enjoy the fresh air. When the
Squire sounded the usual cry of haste, Dane nerved himself, and spoke
out:

"I think I shall stay at home this morning. I feel inclined to laze.
You'll enjoy a single for a change."

There was a moment's silence. Dane was conscious that to each of the
four hearers his words had come with the effect of a shock. Cassandra
strolled a yard or two away, and stood with her back towards him.
Grizel's golden eyes were fixed on his face.

"What's this? What's this?" cried the Squire, breaking the silence.
"Can't bear to be out of the way, can't you? I'll tell Miss Teresa what
a devoted lover she's got! Upon my word, it's a mercy she's coming, for
the strain has been getting too much for you these last days. Quite
ratty once or twice, wasn't he, Beverley? It's all right, old man, it's
all right! We understand. Been there ourselves, haven't we, Beverley?
It's a stage--a stage. Painful at present, but 'twill cease