the door opened to admit Mr. Coppinger, and the
visitor, his eyes now accustomed to the gloom, saw a ruddy, vigorous,
middle-aged man, dressed in flannels, and wearing the white shoes
called _espadrilles_.

"Hoped you would come," he cried, shaking hands cordially. "Why didn't
you look in yesterday? Miss Elvan ought to have told you that it does
me good to see an Englishman. Here for a holiday? Blazing hot, but it
won't last long. South wind. My wife can't stand it. She's here because
of the doctors, but it's all humbug; there are lots of places in
England would suit her just as well, and perhaps better. Let's have
some tea, Alice, there's a good girl. Mr. Warburton looks thirsty, and
I can manage a dozen cups or so. Where's Winifred? Let her bring in the
kits. They're getting shy; it'll do them good to see a stranger."

Will stayed for a couple of hours, amused with Mr. Coppinger's talk,
and pleased with the gentle society of the ladies. The invitation to
breakfast being seriously repeated, he rejoiced to accept it. See how
Providence favours the daring. When Rosamund arrived, she would find
him established as a friend of the Coppingers. He went his way
exultingly.

But neither on the morrow, nor the day after, did Winifred receive any
news from her sister. Will of course kept to himself the events of his
last two days in London; he did not venture to hint at any knowledge of
Rosamund's movements. A suspicion was growing in his mind that she
might not have left England; in which case, was ever man's plight more
ridiculous than his? It would mean that Rosamund had deliberately
misled him; but could he think her capable of that? If it were so, and
if her feelings toward him had undergone so abruptly violent a change
simply because of the discovery she had made--why, then Rosamund was
not Rosamund at all, and he might write himself down a most egregious
ass.

Had not an inkling of some such thing whispered softly to him before
now? Had there not been moments, during the last fortnight, when he
stood, as it were, face to face with himself, and felt oddly abashed by
a look in his own eyes?

Before leaving his lodgings he had written on a piece of paper "Poste
Restante, St. Jean de Luz, France," and had given it to Mrs. Wick, with
the charge to forward immediately any letter or telegram that might
arrive for him. But his inquiries at the post-office were vain. To be
sure, weeks had often gone by without bringing him a