purposes of
propriety. It was partly, too, in thoughtlessness that Edith yielded to
his persuasion and, putting on a thick coat, jumped in with the rest.

He acted as his own chauffeur, and they drove up the new road through
the Esterels. Edith sat beside him, and as they talked little she was
able to observe him to better effect than on the previous day. She took
him to be a year or two younger than herself, tall and slight, with a
stoop he had probably acquired at Eton. She had understood from Miss
Partridge that he was delicate; and he looked it. The circumstance had
kept him from entering the army or going into diplomacy, sending him to
the Riviera for his winters. He was blue-eyed and blond, with a ragged
mustache too thin to conceal the rather pathetic line of the mouth. A
long, thin nose, with an upper lip so short that the flash of teeth was
visible even when the mouth was in repose, gave him the appearance of an
extremely aristocratic rodent.

The drive was repeated a day or two later, and longer excursions came
after that--to St. Raphael, to Valescure, and as far away as Mentone and
the Gorges du Loup. Edith couldn't help liking the young man, first for
his kindness to the children, and then for himself. For himself she
liked him because he was so simple, straightforward, and sincere.

He grew confidential as time went on, telling her of his home, his
mother, his sisters, his duties as squire and lord of the manor, and the
bore it was to be kept out of a profession and away from England at the
very moment of the hunting. He formed the habit of dropping in so
frequently to tea with her, in the little sun-pavilion of the hotel,
that she fancied the Misses Partridge, who were friends of Lady
Ordway's, began to look uneasy. She wondered if they had given the young
man all the information concerning her that was his due.

She made up her mind to ask. Once the fact was recognized it would be a
safeguard, in that any possibilities of their being other than friends
would be out of the way. He gave her the opportunity one afternoon in
March by asking where she thought of going after she left Cannes. The
children and the governess had had tea with them, but had strolled into
the garden. Other occupants of the sun-pavilion had also wandered out
among the pansy-beds and the blossoming mimosas. Edith took her time
before answering.

"I don't know," she said at last. "It's so hard for me to make plans.
You see, there's