difficulties to brush aside or evade. Winifred's silence, too, is not
extraordinary. Apart from her secret history--and she must have a
secret, to be sure, if not a dozen--there is matter for consideration in
her present _milieu_. Putting aside the trivial incident of the
five-days'-old attack (and an intriguer can not spend much time on
trifles, especially when they end happily), there is the problem of Tony
to be pondered over. But, at the worst, he can only be looked on as a
light-hearted dilettante, whose greatest misfortune is the curse of
wealth. Such, at least, is Winifred's shrewd guess, and we know how near
the mark the arrow has fallen. Then, Lionel ... what shall she do with
him? Is it better to keep him with her longer, a cheerful gentleman who
seems quite content to waste his time in her company, despite the
chilling fact that he appears equally content to chaff their prisoner if
she is busy in the house? Or shall she send him away?

Winifred stole a glance at Lionel, pondering with knit brows, and
permitted herself a smile that was unseen by him. Was she thinking of
his pursuit in the garden, the hurled water-jug, or the exposure of
Mizzi? Perhaps the latter; for the smile was followed by a delectable
frown that did not mar the poetry of her face. It seemed, indeed, to act
but as a foil, enhancing the smile that followed again like a victor,--a
victor that has retreated, only to return.

As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the
morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in.

"Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for
you."

Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him
this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress
was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try
to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough
to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting
he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few
sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he
murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set
ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy
interest, had not yet opened her budget.

"I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.

"The worst," said Lionel with a grim absence, not looking up. Presently
his face cleared and he smiled