ing to kiss her, murmured:

"Thanks, I'm all right."

"Nonsense," replied Lady Casterley. "They don't look after you. Was your
mother in the House?"

"I don't think so."

"Exactly. And what is Barbara about? She ought to be seeing to you."

"Barbara is down with Uncle Dennis."

Lady Casterley set her jaw; then looking her grandson through and
through, said:

"I shall take you down there this very day. I shall have the sea to you.
What do you say, Clifton?"

"His lordship does look pale."

"Have the carriage, and we'll go from Clapham Junction. Thomas can go
in and fetch you some clothes. Or, better, though I dislike them, we can
telephone to your mother for a car. It's very hot for trains. Arrange
that, please, Clifton!"

To this project Miltoun raised no objection. And all through the
drive he remained sunk in an indifference and lassitude which to Lady
Casterley seemed in the highest degree ominous. For lassitude, to her,
was the strange, the unpardonable, state. The little great lady--casket
of the aristocratic principle--was permeated to the very backbone with
the instinct of artificial energy, of that alert vigour which those
who have nothing socially to hope for are forced to develop, lest they
should decay and be again obliged to hope. To speak honest truth, she
could not forbear an itch to run some sharp and foreign substance into
her grandson, to rouse him somehow, for she knew the reason of his
state, and was temperamentally out of patience with such a cause for
backsliding. Had it been any other of her grandchildren she would not
have hesitated, but there was that in Miltoun which held even Lady
Casterley in check, and only once during the four hours of travel did
she attempt to break down his reserve. She did it in a manner very
soft for her--was he not of all living things the hope and pride of
her heart? Tucking her little thin sharp hand under his arm, she said
quietly:

"My dear, don't brood over it. That will never do."

But Miltoun removed her hand gently, and laid it back on the dust rug,
nor did he answer, or show other sign of having heard.

And Lady Casterley, deeply wounded, pressed her faded lips together, and
said sharply:

"Slower, please, Frith!"

CHAPTER V

It was to Barbara that Miltoun unfolded, if but little, the trouble of
his spirit, lying that same afternoon under a ragged tamarisk hedge with
the tide far out. He could never have done this if there had not be