scarf, a trifle
old-fashioned, and the pansies at her belt seemed to Tatham's eager eyes
the very perfection of dress. He watched her keenly as she came in; the
kind look at Faversham; then the start--was it, of pity?--for his altered
aspect, the friendly greeting for himself; and all so sweet, so detached,
so composed. His heart sank, he could not have told why.

"I ought to have warned you of that hill!" she said, standing beside
Faversham, and looking down upon him.

"You couldn't know I was such a duffer!" laughed Faversham. "It wasn't
me--it was the bike. At least, they tell me so. As for me, everything,
from the moment I left you till I woke up here six weeks ago, is wiped
out. Did you finish your sketch? Were the press notices good?"

She smiled. "Did you see what they were?"

"Certainly. I saw your name in one as I picked it out."

"I still sleep with it under my pillow--when I feel low," said Lydia. "It
said the nicest things. And I sold my pictures."

"Magnificent!" said Faversham. "But of course you sold them."

"Oh, no, Mr. Faversham, not 'of course'!" cried Mrs. Penfold, turning
round upon him. "You can't think how Lydia was envied! Hardly anybody
sold. There were friends of hers exhibiting--and it was dreadful. The
secretary said they had hardly ever had such a bad year--something to do
with a bank breaking--or the influenza--or something. But Lydia, lucky
girl, sold hers within the first week. And we don't know at all who
bought them. The secretary said he was not to tell. There are many
buyers, he told us, who won't give their names--for fear of being
bothered afterward. As if Lydia would ever bother any one!"

The guilty Tatham sat with his cane between his knees twirling it, his
eyes on the ground. No one noticed him.

"And the sketch you were making that day?" said Faversham.

"As you liked it, I brought it to show you," said Lydia shyly. And she
produced a thin parcel she had been carrying under her arm.

Faversham praised the drawing warmly. It reminded him, he said, of some
work he had seen in March, at one of the Bond Street galleries; a one-man
show by a French water-colourist. He named him. Lydia flushed a little.

"Next to Mr. Delorme"--she glanced gratefully at Tatham--"he is the man
of all the world I admire most! I am afraid I can't help imitating him."

"But you don't!" cried Faversham. "You are quite independent. I didn't
mean that for a moment."

Lydia's eyes surveyed him w