red the path, they came suddenly on
Royston Keene. He was lying at full length, his head resting against the
knotted root of an olive, with eyes half closed, and the cigar between
his lips, that seldom left them when he was alone. It _was_ odd that he
should have selected that especial spot for the scene of his _siesta_.
Cecil did her very utmost to look unconcerned: it was too provoking that
she could not help blushing! Mr. Fullarton evidently looked upon it in
the light of an ambush. Had he ventured to give his thoughts utterance,
certainly the ready text would have sprung to his lips, "Hast thou found
me, O mine enemy?" If there was "malice prepense" there, the "enemy"
deserved some credit for the perfectly natural air of surprise with
which he rose and greeted them.

"Are you recruiting after last night's triumphs, or escaping from
popular enthusiasm, Miss Tresilyan? I have met several Frenchmen already
who are quite childish about your singing. I should not advise you to
venture on the Terrace to-day. There might be temptations to vanity,
which Mr. Fullarton will tell you are dangerous."

She had so completely made up her mind to some allusion to her change of
purpose, or to his own absence, that it was rather aggravating to find
him ignore both utterly. But she rallied well.

"Nothing half so imaginative, Major Keene. It was a very stupid party,
and I only sang once, as, I dare say, you have heard. We are only going
to help Mrs. Fullarton to find some wild-flowers. I hope you have not
anticipated us?"

He _fixed_ her with the cool, appreciative look that was harder to meet
than even his sneer.

"No; the flowers are safe from me. I don't care enough about them to
keep them; and it is a pity to pick them and throw them away to wither.
But I would have asked to be allowed to help you in your search, only--I
don't like to spoil a picture. You brought a very good one to my mind as
you turned the corner, a 'Descent into Egypt,' that I saw long ago. The
blot _there_, I remember, was a very stout, rubicund Joseph, not at all
worthy of the imperial Madonna."

While he was speaking he drew back, and leaned lazily against the stem
of the olive, with the evident intention of resuming his original
posture as soon as courtesy would allow. Miss Tresilyan could not
restrain a quick gesture of impatience.

"As we did not come out to _poser_, Mr. Fullarton, don't you think we
had better not delay any longer? We are so late