lly to Wiggleswick, although he confessed that the only
omelette that Wiggleswick had tried to make they had used for months
afterwards as a kettle-holder; but Emmy did not prattle. She sat in a
corner, listlessly turning over the leaves of a novel and taking an
extraordinary lack of interest in the general conversation. The usual
headache and neuralgia supplied her excuse. She looked pale, ill, and
worried; and worry on a baby face is a lugubrious and pitiful spectacle.

After Mrs. Oldrieve had retired for the night, and while Zora happened to
be absent from the room in search of an atlas, Septimus and Emmy were left
alone for a moment.

"I'm so sorry you have a headache," said Septimus sympathetically. "Why
don't you go to bed?"

"I hate bed. I can't sleep," she replied, with an impatient shake of the
body. "You mustn't mind me. I'm sorry I'm so rotten--ah! well then--such an
uninspiring companion, if you like," she added, seeing that the word had
jarred on him. Then she rose. "I suppose I bore you. I had better go, as
you suggest, and get out of the way."

He intercepted her petulant march to the door.

"I wish you'd tell me what's the matter. It isn't only a headache."

"It's Hell and the Devil and all his angels," said Emmy, "and I'd like to
murder somebody."

"You can murder me, if it would do you any good," said Septimus.

"I believe you'd let me," she said, yielding. "You're a good sort." She
turned, with a short laugh, her novel held in both hands behind her back,
one finger holding the place. A letter dropped from it. Septimus picked it
up and handed it to her. It bore an Italian stamp and the Naples postmark.

"Yes. That's from him," she said resentfully. "I've not had a letter for a
week, and now he writes to say he has gone to Naples on account of his
health. You had better let me go, my good Septimus; if I stay here much
longer I'll be talking slush and batter. I've got things on my nerves."

"Why don't you talk to Zora?" he suggested. "She is so wonderful."

"She's the last person in the world that must know anything. Do you
understand? The very last."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he replied ruefully.

"She doesn't know anything about Mordaunt Prince. She must never know.
Neither must mother. They don't often talk much about the family; but
they're awfully proud of it. Mother's people date from before Noah, and
they look down on the Oldrieves because they sprang up like mushrooms just
a