n to her books. She was reading Virgil. For a quarter of an
hour it cost her a repetition of efforts to fix her attention, but her
resolve was at length successful. Then Egremont came in.

'Do I disturb you?' he said, noticing her studious attitude.

'You can give me a little help, if you will. I can't make out that
line.'

She gave him one copy and herself opened another. It led to their
reading some fifty lines together.

'Oh, why have we girls to get our knowledge so late and with such
labour!' Annabel exclaimed at length. 'You learn Greek and Latin when
you are children; it ought to be the same with us. I am impatient; I
want to read straight on.'

'You very soon will,' he replied absently. Then, having glanced at the
windows, which were suddenly illumined with a broad slant of sunlight,
he asked: 'Will you come out? It will be delightful after the rain.'

Annabel was humming over dactylics. She put her book aside with
reluctance.

'I'll go and ask my cousin.'

Egremont averted his face. Annabel went up to Paula's room, knocked,
and entered. From a bustling sound within, it appeared likely that Miss
Tyrrell's business-like attitude at the table had been suddenly assumed.

'Will you come out, Paula? The rain is over and gone.'

'Not now.'

'Mr. Egremont wishes to go for a walk. Couldn't you come?'

'Please beg Mr. Egremont to excuse me. I am tired after yesterday,
dear.'

When her cousin had withdrawn Paula went to the window. In a few
minutes she saw Egremont and Annabel go forth and stroll from the
garden towards the lake. Then she reseated herself, and sat biting her
pen.

The two walked lingeringly by the water's edge. They spoke of trifles.
When they were some distance from the house, Egremont said:

'So you see I have at last found my work. If you thought of me at all,
I dare say my life seemed to you a very useless one, and little likely
to lead to anything.'

'No, I had not that thought, Mr. Egremont,' she answered simply. 'I
felt sure that you were preparing yourself for something worthy.'

'I hope that is the meaning of these years that have gone so quickly.
But it was not conscious preparation. It has often seemed to me that in
travelling and gaining experience I was doing all that life demanded of
me. Few men can be more disposed to idle dreaming than I am. And even
now I keep asking myself whether this, too, is only a moment of
idealism, which will go by and leave me with less pract