At noon, he ate and drank heroically, then, having had his way pointed out to him, set forth on the quest.  He passed through the length of the town, crossed the little river Nivelle, where he paused for a moment on the bridge, to gaze at the panorama of mountains, all but to the summit clad in soft verdure, and presently turned into an inland road, which led him between pastures and fields of maize, gently upwards.  On a height before him stood a house, which he believed to be that he sought; he had written down its unrememberable Basque name, and inquiry of a peasant assured him that he was not mistaken.  Having his goal in view, he stood to reflect.  Could he march up to the front door, and ask boldly for Miss Elvan?  But—­the doubt suddenly struck him—­what if Rosamund were not living here?  At Mrs. Coppinger’s her sister was governess; she had bidden him address letters there, but that might be merely for convenience; perhaps she was not Mrs. Coppinger’s guest at all, but had an abode somewhere in the town.  In that case, he must see her sister—­who perhaps, nay, all but certainly, had never heard his name.

He walked on.  The road became a hollow lane, with fern and heather and gorse intermingled below the thickets on the bank.  Another five minutes would bring him to the top of the hill, to the avenue of trees by which the house was approached.  And the nearer he came, the more awkward seemed his enterprise.  It might have been better to write a note to Rosamund, announcing his arrival, and asking for an interview.  On the other hand that was a timid proceeding; boldly to present himself before her would be much more effective.  If he could only be sure of seeing her, and seeing her alone

For a couple of hours did he loiter irresolutely, ever hoping that chance might help him.  Perhaps, as the afternoon grew cooler, people might come forth from the house.  His patience at length worn out, he again entered the avenue, half resolved to go up to the door.

All at once he heard voices—­the voices of children, and toward him came two little girls, followed by a young lady.  They drew near.  Standing his ground, with muscles tense, Warburton glanced at the young lady’s face, and could not doubt that this was Rosamund’s sister; the features were much less notable than Rosamund’s, but their gentle prettiness made claim of kindred with her.  Forthwith he doffed his hat, and advanced respectfully.

“I think I am speaking to Miss Elvan?”

A nervous smile, a timidly surprised affirmative, put him a little more at his ease.

“My name is Warburton,” he pursued, with the half humorous air of one who takes a liberty which he feels sure will be pardoned.  “I have the pleasure of knowing your relatives, the Pomfrets, and—­”

“Oh, yes, my sister has often spoken of you,” said Winifred quickly.  Then, as if afraid that she had committed an indiscretion, she cast down her eyes and looked embarrassed.