Mrs. Abbott begged he would do nothing of the kind, but Alma was imperative.

’Of course he will!  If it rains, a covered carriage will be here in time.  And write to me —­ mind you write to me; not only to say you’ve got safe home, but in future.  You promise?’

In the morning it did rain, and heavily, so Harvey and his friend drove to the station shut up together, with scarce a glimpse of anything beyond the boulder walls and gorse hedges and dripping larch-trees.  They spoke a good deal of Alma.  As soon as she was well again, said Rolfe, he must take her for a thorough change.  In truth, he was beginning, he said, to doubt whether she could live in this out-of-the-world place much longer.  She liked it —­ oh yes, she liked it —­ but he feared the solitude was telling upon her nerves.  Mrs. Abbott admitted that there might be something in this.

‘Should you return to London?’ she asked.

Whereupon Harvey stared before him, and looked troubled, and could only answer that he did not know.

When, two days after, the promised letter came from Mrs. Abbott, Harvey took it up to the invalid’s room, and sat by her whilst she read it.

‘She writes so nicely,’ said Alma, who never in her life had showed such sweetness of disposition as during this convalescence.  ’Read it for yourself, Harvey.  Isn’t it a nice letter?  I feel so sorry we haven’t known each other before.  But we’re going to be friends now.’

‘I’m sure I’m very glad.’

’Nothing from Mamma?  I almost think I could write to her to-day.  Of course, she’ll fall into a dreadful state of mind, and want to know why she wasn’t sent for, and lament over —­ everything.  But it’s no use her coming here now.  When we go away we must manage to see her.’

‘Yes.  Have you thought where you would like to go?’

‘Not yet.  There’s plenty of time.’

Not a word had passed between them with reference to the perilous drive.  Alma spoke as if her illness were merely natural, due to nothing in particular; but her husband fancied that she wished to atone, by sweet and affectionate behaviour, for that unwonted ill-usage of him.  He saw, too, beyond doubt, that the illness seemed to her a blessing; its result, which some women would have wept over, brought joy into her eyes.  This, in so far as it was unnatural, caused him some disturbance; on the other hand, he was quite unable to take a regretful view of what had happened, and why should he charge upon Alma as a moral fault that which he easily condoned in himself?

A few days more and the convalescent was allowed to leave her room.  As if to welcome her, there arrived that morning a letter from Melbourne, with news that Sibyl and her husband would sail for England in a fortnight’s time after the date of writing, by the Orient Line steamer Lusitania.

‘You know what you suggested?’ cried Alma delightedly.  ‘Shall we go?’