eal concerned to notice the grim cloud on his friend's
face, when he returned for a moment to his room for his bag. He knew
him too well to ask questions, but made up for his silence by the warmth
of his farewell.

"Come back soon, Armstrong; it will be awfully slow while you're away.
Let's carry your bag down-stairs."

As they passed the end of the lobby, a certain door chanced to open, and
Armstrong caught a vision of an easel and a fair head beyond, and beyond
that a mantelpiece decorated with all sorts of Oriental and feminine
knick-knacks. He might have observed more had his glass been up, and
had he not been eagerly accosted by Miss Jill, who just then was running
out of the room.

"Mr Armstrong! Mr Armstrong!" shouted she in glee. "Rosalind, he's
come back; here he is!"

And without more ado she caught the embarrassed tutor by the arm and
demanded a kiss. He compromised feebly by patting her head, whereat
Miss Jill pouted.

"You're more unkind than yesterday," she said; "you kissed me then."

"You shouldn't ask Mr Armstrong to do horrid things," said Miss
Rosalind, coming to the door.

The tutor, very hot and flurried, replied to this cruel challenge by
saluting the little tyrant and bowing to her sister.

"Won't you come in and see the studio?" said the latter. "It's a little
less dreadful than yesterday, thanks to Roger. What are you carrying
that bag for, Roger?"

"Armstrong's going up to town for a few days."

"How horrid!" said Miss Rosalind, with vexation in her voice; "just
while Jill and I are feeling so lonely, cooped up here like nuns, with
not a soul to talk to, and knowing we're in everybody's way."

"Armstrong has a sad enough reason for going," said Roger; "but I say,
it's not very complimentary to me to say you've not a soul to talk to."

The half-jesting petulance in Rosalind's face had given place to a look
almost of pain as she held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Mr Armstrong," said she. "I didn't know you were in
trouble."

"It _will_ be jolly when you come home," chimed in Jill.

Somehow in Mr Armstrong's ears, as he whirled along to town that
afternoon, those two pretty farewells rang continuous changes. When, at
evening, he took his seat in the Dover express, they still followed him,
now in solos, now in duet, now in restless fugue. On the steamer they
rose and fell with the uneasy waves and played in the whistling wind.
As he sped towards Paris, past the acacia hedge