ees, whose perfume filled with aromatic
sweetness the still night air. Piles of letters came every day, which he
left unopened upon his study table. Telegrams followed, which he threw
into the wastepaper basket. Juliet watched the accumulating heap with
amazement.

"Whatever do people write to you so much for?" she asked one morning,
watching the stream of letters flow out of the post bag.

Wingrave was silent for a moment. Her question brought a sudden and
sharp sting of remembrance. Juliet knew him only as Sir Wingrave Seton.
She knew nothing of Mr. Wingrave, millionaire.

"Advertisements, a good many of them," he said. "I must send for
Aynesworth some day to go through them all."

"What fun!" she exclaimed. "Do send for him! He thinks that I am staying
with Miss Pengarth, and I haven't written once since I got here!"

To Wingrave, it seemed that a chill had somehow stolen into the hot
summer morning. His feet were very nearly upon the earth again.

"I forgot," he said, "that Aynesworth was--a friend of yours. He came
and saw you often in London?"

She smiled reflectively.

"He has been very, very kind," she answered. "He was always that, from
the first time I saw you both. Do you remember? It was down in the lower
gardens."

"Yes!" he answered, "I remember quite well."

"He was very kind to me then," she continued, "and you--well, I was
frightened of you." She stopped for a moment and laughed. Her eyes were
full of amazed reminiscence. "You were so cold and severe! I never
could have dreamed that, after all, it was you who were going to be
the dearest, most generous friend I could ever have had! Do you know,
Walter--I mean Mr. Aynesworth--isn't very pleased with me just now?"

"Why not?"

"He cannot understand why I will not tell him my guardian's name. I
think it worries him."

"You would like to tell him?" Wingrave asked.

She nodded.

"I think so," she answered.

Wingrave said no more, but after breakfast he went to his study alone.
Juliet found him there an hour later, sitting idly in front of his
table. His great pile of correspondence was still untouched. She came
and sat on the edge of the table.

"What are we going to do this morning, please?" she asked.

Wingrave glanced towards his letters.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I must spend the day here!"

She looked at him blankly.

"Not really!" she exclaimed. "I thought that we were going to walk to
Hanging Tor?"

Wingrave took up