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Happily, the servant added that Miss Caroline was in the garden.

“I’ll go round,” said Rosamund at once.”Don’t trouble–“

The pathway round the pleasant little house soon brought her within view of a young lady who sat in a garden-chair, sewing. But Miss Caroline was not alone; near to her stood a man in shirt-sleeves and bare-headed, vigorously sawing a plank; he seemed to be engaged in the construction of a summer-house, and Rosamund took him at first sight for a mechanic, but when he turned round, exhibiting a ruddy face all agleam with health and good humour, she recognised the young lady’s brother, Geoffrey Hunt. He, as though for the moment puzzled, looked fixedly at her.

“Oh, Miss Jewell, how glad I am to see you!”

Enlightened by his sister’s words, Geoffrey dropped the saw, and stepped forward with still heartier greeting. Had civility permitted, he might easily have explained his doubts. It was some six years since his last meeting with Rosamund, and she had changed not a little; he remembered her as a graceful and rather pretty girl, with life in her, even if it ran for the most part to silliness, gaily dressed, sprightly of manner; notwithstanding the account he had received of her from his relatives, it astonished him to look upon this limp, faded woman. In Rosamund’s eyes, Geoffrey was his old self; perhaps a trifle more stalwart, and if anything handsomer, but with just the same light in his eyes, the same smile on his bearded face, the same cordiality of utterance. For an instant, she compared him with Mr. Cheeseman, and flushed for very shame. Unable to command her voice, she stammered incoherent nothings; only when a seat supported her weary body did she lose the dizziness which had threatened downright collapse; then she closed her eyes, and forgot everything but the sense of rest.

Geoffrey drew on his coat, and spoke jestingly of his amateur workmanship. Such employment, however, seemed not inappropriate to him, for his business was that of a timber-merchant. Of late years he had lived abroad, for the most part in Canada. Rosamund learnt that at present he was having a longish holiday.

“And you go back to Canada?”

This she asked when Miss Hunt had stepped into the house to call for tea. Geoffrey answered that it was doubtful; for various reasons he rather hoped to remain in England, but the choice did not altogether rest with him.

“At all events”–she gave a poor little laugh–“you haven’t pined in exile.”

“Not a bit of it. I have always had plenty of hard work–the one thing needful.”

“Yes–I remember–you always used to say that. And I used to protest. You granted, I think, that it might be different with women.”

“Did I?”

He wished to add something to the point, but refrained out of compassion. It was clear to him that Miss Jewell, at all events, would have been none the worse for exacting employment. Mrs. Hunt had spoken of her with the disapprobation natural in a healthy, active woman of the old school, and Geoffrey himself could not avoid a contemptuous judgment.

“You have lived in London all this time?” he asked, before she could speak.

“Yes. Where else should I live? My sister at Glasgow doesn’t want me there, and–and there’s nobody else, you know.” She tried to laugh.” I have friends in London–well, that is to say–at all events I’m not quitesolitary.”

The man smiled, and could not allow her to suspect how profoundly he pitied such a condition. Caroline Hunt had reappeared; she began to talk of her mother and sister, who were enjoying themselves in Wales. Her own holiday would come upon their return; Geoffrey was going to take her to Switzerland.