rgina scoffed at the notion.

These fragmentary reflections, and others like them were passing rapidly
and disconnectedly through the mind of the elder sister, when her ear
caught the sound of footsteps in the drive. Drawing aside a corner of the
muslin curtain beside her, which draped one of the French windows of the
low room, she perceived the tall figure and scarcely perceptible limp of
Lord Buntingford. Cynthia too saw him, and ceased to lounge. She quietly
re-lit the tea-kettle, and took a roll of knitting from a table near her.
Then as the front bell rang through the small house, she threw a scarcely
perceptible look at her sister. Would Georgie "show tact," and leave her
and Philip alone, or would she insist on her rights and spoil his visit?
Georgina made no sign.

Buntingford entered, flushed with his walk, and carrying a bunch of
blue-bells which he presented to Lady Georgina.

"I gathered them in Cricket Wood. The whole wood is a sea of blue. You
and Cynthia must really go and see them."

He settled himself in a chair, and plunged into tea and small talk as
though to the manner born. But all the time Cynthia, while approving his
naval uniform, and his general picturesqueness, was secretly wondering
what he had come about. For although he was enjoying a well-earned leave,
the first for two years, and had every right to idle, the ordinary
afternoon call of country life, rarely, as she knew, came into the scheme
of his day. The weather was beautiful and she had made sure that he would
be golfing on a well-known links some three miles off.

Presently the small talk flagged, and Buntingford began to fidget. Slowly
Lady Georgina rose from her seat, and again extinguished the flame under
the silver kettle. Would she go, or would she not go? Cynthia dropped
some stitches in the tension of the moment. Then Buntingford got up to
open the door for Georgina, who, without deigning to make any
conventional excuse for her departure, nevertheless departed.

Buntingford returned to his seat, picked up Cynthia's ball of wool, and
sat holding it, his eyes on the down-dropped head of his cousin, and on
the beautiful hands holding the knitting-needles. Yes, she was still very
good-looking, and had been sensible enough not to spoil herself by paint
and powder, unlike that silly child, Helena, who was yet so much
younger--twenty-two years younger, almost. It seemed incredible. But he
could reckon Cynthia's age to a day; for th