med, turning away, "I thought so. Come, we are
wasting time."

"Stop!" cried Sam.

But she had passed swiftly down the sloping deck and dropped into the
boat without his assistance. He followed unsteadily, untied the
painter, and jumped down after her. They rowed for some time in
silence after the retreating picnickers. Before they came abreast of
the hindmost boat, however, Sam spoke--

"Look here. I can't help myself, and that's the truth. If you want
to run away I'll help you." He groaned inwardly as he said it.

She made no reply, but kept her eyes fixed on his face, as if
weighing his words. Nor, beyond a cool "Good-night" at parting on
the quay, did another word pass between them.

"What luck?" asked the Honourable Frederic as his wife entered the
drawing-room of "The Bower." He was stretched in an arm-chair before
the fire, and turned with a glance of some anxiety at her entrance.

She looked about her wearily, took off her hat, tossed it across to
a table, and, sinking into the armchair opposite, began to draw off
her gloves.

"I'm sick to death of all this, me dear--of 'the Cause,' of Brady, of
these people, of meself."

Her face wore a grey look that made her seem a full ten years older.

"Won't you include me in the list, my love?" asked her husband
amiably.

"I would," she replied, "only I've already said as much twice this
very afternoon."

She laughed a fatigued little laugh, and looked around her again.
The drawing-room had greatly changed since first we visited it with
Admiral Buzza, and the local tradesmen regarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys'
account with some complacency as they thought of payment after
Midsummer. For the strangers were not of the class that goes to the
Metropolis or to the Co-operative Stores; from the outset they had
announced a warm desire to benefit the town of Troy. This pretty
drawing-room was one of the results, and it only wanted a certain
number of cheques from the Honourable Frederic to make the excellence
of the arrangement complete.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys took a leisurely survey of the room while her
husband awaited information.

"The pote is hooked," she said at last, "an' so's Master Sam."

"The poet is our first card," replied her husband, searching his
pocket and producing a letter. "The _Maryland_ should be here
to-morrow or next day. Upon my word, Nellie, I don't want to ask
questions, but you've done exceedingly well."

"Better than well, me