s," he assented absently, as they began to walk.

If she did not stare, still she used her eyes, curiously studying his
face with its suggestion of strength and that somehow rather
inconsistent hint of sensitiveness. He was gloomy; that was just now
only proper. She saw something that puzzled her; Mina Zabriska could
have told her what it was, but she herself did not succeed in
identifying Harry's watching look. She was merely puzzled at a certain
shade of expression in the eyes. She had not seen it at the first
moment, but it was there now as he turned to her from time to time while
they sauntered along.

"That's Merrion, our dower-house. But it's let now to a funny little
woman, Madame Zabriska. She's rather a friend of mine, but her uncle,
who lives with her, doesn't like me." He smiled as he spoke of the
Major. "She's very much interested in you."

"In me? Has she heard of me?"

"She hears of most things. She's as sharp as a needle. I like her
though."

He said no more till they were back in the garden; then he proposed that
they should sit down on the seat by the river.

"My mother used to sit here often," he said. "She always loved to see
the sun go down from the garden. She didn't read or do anything; she
just sat watching."

"Thinking?" Cecily suggested.

"Well, hardly. Letting thoughts happen if they wanted to, perhaps. She
was always rather--rather passive about things, you know. They took hold
of her if--well, as I say, if they wanted to." He turned to her quickly
as he asked, "Are you at all like that?"

"I believe I'm only just beginning to find out that I'm anything or like
anything. And, anyhow, I'm quite different from what I was yesterday."

"From yesterday?"

"Yes. Just by coming here, I think."

"That's what I mean! Things do take hold of you then?"

"This place does apparently," she answered laughing, as she leaned back
on the seat, throwing her arm behind her and resting her head on it. She
caught him looking at her again with marked and almost startled
intensity. He was rather strange with his alternations of apparent
forgetfulness and this embarrassing scrutiny.

"Tell me about yourself," he asked, or rather commanded, so brusque and
direct was the request.

She told him about the small house and the small life she had led in it,
even about the furniture and the bric-a-brac, confessing to her
occasional clearances and the deception she had to practise on her
father about them.