ustace looks so seedy. I'll try and bring him,
if I may. Granny is terribly well.

"Best love, dear, from your

"BABS."

The same afternoon she came, but without Miltoun, driving up from the
station in a fly. Lord Dennis met her at the gate; and, having kissed
her, looked at her somewhat anxiously, caressing his white peaked beard.
He had never yet known Babs sick of anything, except when he took her
out in John Bogle's boat. She was certainly looking pale, and her hair
was done differently--a fact disturbing to one who did not discover it.
Slipping his arm through hers he led her out into a meadow still full
of buttercups, where an old white pony, who had carried her in the Row
twelve years ago, came up to them and rubbed his muzzle against
her waist. And suddenly there rose in Lord Dennis the thoroughly
discomforting and strange suspicion that, though the child was not going
to cry, she wanted time to get over the feeling that she was. Without
appearing to separate himself from her, he walked to the wall at the end
of the field, and stood looking at the sea.

The tide was nearly up; the South wind driving over it brought him the
scent of the sea-flowers, and the crisp rustle of little waves swimming
almost to his feet. Far out, where the sunlight fell, the smiling waters
lay white and mysterious in July haze, giving him a queer feeling. But
Lord Dennis, though he had his moments of poetic sentiment, was on the
whole quite able to keep the sea in its proper place--for after all it
was the English Channel; and like a good Englishman he recognized that
if you once let things get away from their names, they ceased to be
facts, and if they ceased to be facts, they became--the devil! In truth
he was not thinking much of the sea, but of Barbara. It was plain that
she was in trouble of some kind. And the notion that Babs could find
trouble in life was extraordinarily queer; for he felt, subconsciously,
what a great driving force of disturbance was necessary to penetrate
the hundred folds of the luxurious cloak enwrapping one so young and
fortunate. It was not Death; therefore it must be Love; and he thought
at once of that fellow with the red moustaches. Ideas were all very
well--no one would object to as many as you liked, in their proper
place--the dinner-table, for example. But to fall in love, if indeed it
were so, with a man who not only had ideas, but an inclination to live
up to them, and on them, and on nothing