Nan’s recovery had been slow, and Peter had been compelled to abandon his intention to see no more of her.  She seemed restless and uneasy if he failed to visit her at least once a day, and throughout those long weeks of convalescence he had learned anew the same self-sacrifice and chivalry of spirit which had carried him forward to the utter renunciation he had made that summer night in King Arthur’s Castle.

There was little enough in the fragile figure, lying day after day on a couch, to rouse a man’s passion.  Rather, Nan’s utter weakness called forth all the solicitude and ineffable tenderness of which Peter was capable—­such tenderness—­almost maternal in its selfless, protective quality, as is only found in a strong man—­never in a weak one.

At last, with the May warmth and sunshine, she had begun to pick up strength, and now she was actually on the high road to recovery and demanding for the third or fourth time when they might go to Mallow.

Inwardly she was conscious of an intense craving for the sea, with its salt, invigorating breath, for the towering cliffs of the Cornish coast, and the wide expanse of downland that stretched away to landward till it met and mingled with the tender blue of the sky.

“Strong enough to stand the journey?” she exclaimed in answer to Kitty’s remark.  “I should think I am strong enough!  I was outdoors for a couple of hours this morning, and I don’t feel the least bit tired.  I’m only lying here”—­indicating the Chesterfield with a humorous little smile that faintly recalled the Nan of former days—­“because I find it so extremely comfortable.”

“That may be a slight exaggeration,” returned Kitty.  “Still, I think you could travel now.  And your coming down to Mallow will rather ease things.”

“Ease things?  What things?”

“Your meeting with Lady Gertrude, for one.  You may have forgotten—­though you can be sure she hasn’t!—­that you left Trenby Hall rather unceremoniously!  And then your illness immediately afterwards prevented your making your peace with her.”

Nan’s face changed.  The light seemed to die out of her eyes.

“I’d almost forgotten Lady Gertrude,” she said painfully.

“I don’t think you’ll find it difficult to meet her again,” replied Kitty.  “Roger stopped in town all through the time you were really dangerously ill—­”

“Did he?” interrupted Nan.  “That was—­rather nice of him, considering how I’d treated him.”

“Do you still mean to marry the fellow?” asked Barry, bluntly.

“Yes.”  The monosyllable fell slowly but quite convincingly.  “Why hasn’t he been to see me lately?” she added after a moment.

“Because I asked him not to,” answered Kitty.  “He stayed in London till you were out of danger.  After that I bustled him off home, and told him I should only bring you down to Mallow if he could induce Lady Gertrude to behave decently to you.”