The tears were running down her cheeks.  She looked full into his earnest eyes.

“Oh, Ronnie, you do look different!  You do look your own dear self.  Oh, Ronnie, my own!  But Dick is coming back to-morrow.  He went up to town only this morning.  He will tell us what to do.  Till then, don’t you think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, and—­and how happy we are?”

“No, Helen,” he said firmly.  “We are not happy yet.  I must know more.  How long is it since that evening in the studio?”

“About a month, darling.  This is Christmas week.  To-morrow will be Christmas Eve.”

Ronnie considered this in silence.

Then:  “Let’s walk up and down,” he said.  “It ought to be too cold to sit about in Christmas week.”

She rose and they walked along the sea-front together.

Ronnie glanced behind them.  The man on the seat had risen also and was following at a little distance.

“What cheek of that chap,” he said.  “He seems determined to overhear our conversation.  Shall I tell him to be off?”

“No, dear; please don’t,” she answered hurriedly.  “He cannot possibly overhear us.”

Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up.  But Ronnie turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at once sat down on the nearest seat.

Then poor Ronnie knew.

“I suppose he is a keeper,” he said.

“Oh, no, darling!  He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet for you.  Such a nice man and so attentive.  He brushes your clothes.”

“I see,” said Ronnie.  “Valets are quite useful people.  But they do not as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to their master and mistress!  Do they?  However, if Dick is coming to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him.  Take my arm, Helen.  I feel a bit shaky when I walk.  Now tell me—­why did we come here?”

“They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing air might do wonders for you, Ronnie.”

“Who were ’they’?”

“Dr. Dick and—­a friend of his.”

“I see.  Well, I won’t bully you into telling me things you are afraid I ought not to know.  But I will tell you just how much I do know.  It is all a queer sort of black dream.  I absolutely can’t remember seeing anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on the sea.  But I vaguely remember hearing things.  There was always a kind voice.  Of course that was yours, Helen.  Also there was a kind hand.  I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand.  Then, there were several strange voices; they came and went.  Then there was Mrs. Dalmain.  When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain!  Then I sometimes thought I heard a baby cry.  Wasn’t that queer?”