ver care to go there again."

"Or the Pyrenees?"

"Have you seen them yet?" asked Rosamund.

Will shook his head.

"I remember your saying," she remarked, "you would go for your next
holiday to the Basque country."

"Did I? Yes--when you had been talking much about it. But since then
I've had no holiday."

"No holiday--all this time?"

Rosamund's brows betrayed her sympathy.

"How long is it since we were together in Switzerland?" asked Will,
dreamily, between puffs. "This is the second summer, isn't it? One
loses count of time, there in London. I was saying to Franks the other
day--"

He stopped, but not abruptly; the words seemed to murmur away as his
thoughts wandered. Rosamund's eyes were for a moment cast down. But for
a moment only; then she fixed them upon him in a steady, untroubled
gaze.

"You were saying to Mr. Franks--?"

The quiet sincerity of her voice drew Warburton's look. She was sitting
straight in the cane chair, her hands upon her lap, with an air of
pleasant interest.

"I was saying--oh, I forget--it's gone."

"Do you often see him?" Rosamund inquired in the same calmly interested
tone.

"Now and then. He's a busy man, with a great many friends--like most
men who succeed."

"But you don't mean, I hope, that he cares less for his friends of the
old time, before he succeeded?"

"Not at all," exclaimed Will, rolling upon his chair, and gazing at the
distance. "He's the same as ever. It's my fault that we don't meet
oftener. I was always a good deal of a solitary, you know, and my
temper hasn't been improved by ill-luck."

"Ill-luck?"

Again there was sympathy in Rosamund's knitted brow; her voice touched
a note of melodious surprise and pain.

"That's neither here nor there. We were talking of Franks. If anything,
he's improved, I should say. I can't imagine any one bearing success
better--just the same bright, good-natured, sincere fellow. Of course,
he enjoys his good fortune--he's been through hard times."

"Which would have been harder still, but for a friend of his," said
Rosamund, with eyes thoughtfully drooped.

Warburton watched her as she spoke. Her look and her voice carried him
back to the Valley of Trient; he heard the foaming torrent; saw the
dark fir-woods, felt a cool breath from the glacier. Thus had Rosamund
been wont to talk; then, as now, touching his elementary emotions, but
moving his reflective self to a smile.

"Have you seen Miss Cross since you ca