“Your sister is here, I think,” fell from Warburton, as he threw a glance at the two little girls, who had drawn apart.

“Here?  Oh, no.  Not long ago she thought of coming, but—­”

Will stood confounded.  All manner of conjectures flashed through his mind.  Rosamund must have broken her journey somewhere.  That she had not left England at all seemed impossible.

“I was mistaken,” he forced himself to remark carelessly.  Then, with a friendly smile, “Forgive me for intruding myself.  I came up here for the view—­”

“Yes, isn’t it beautiful!” exclaimed Winifred, evidently glad of this diversion from personal topics.  And they talked of the landscape, until Warburton felt that he must take his leave.  He mentioned where he was staying, said that he hoped to spend a week or so at St. Jean de Luz—­and so got away, with an uneasy feeling that his behaviour had not exactly been such as to recommend him to the timid young lady.

Rosamund had broken her journey somewhere, that was evident; perhaps in Paris, where he knew she had friends.  If she did not arrive this evening, or to-morrow, her sister would at all events hear that she was coming.  But how was he to be informed of her arrival?  How could he keep an espial on the house?  His situation was wretchedly unlike that he had pictured to himself; instead of the romantic lover, carrying all before him by the energy of passion, he had to play a plotting, almost sneaking part, in constant fear of being taken for a presumptuous interloper.  Lucky that Rosamund had spoken of him to her sister.  Well, he must wait; though waiting was the worst torture for a man in his mood.

He idled through the day on the seashore.  Next morning he bathed, and had a long walk, coming back by way of the Coppingers’ house, but passing quickly, and seeing no one.  When he returned to the hotel, he was told that a gentleman had called to see him, and had left his card “Mr. Alfred Coppinger.”  Ho, ho!  Winifred Elvan had mentioned their meeting, and the people wished to be friendly.  Excellent!  This afternoon he would present himself.  Splendid.  Ml his difficulties were at an end.  He saw himself once more in a gallant attitude.

The weather was very hot—­unusually hot, said people at the hotel.  As he climbed the hill between three and four o’clock, the sun’s ardour reminded him of old times in the tropics.  He passed along the shady avenue, and the house door was opened to him by a Basque maid-servant, who led him to the drawing-room.  Here, in a dim light which filtered through the interstices of shutters, sat the lady of the house alone.

“Is it Mr. Warburton?” she asked, rising feebly, and speaking in a thin, fatigued, but kindly voice.  “So kind of you to come.  My husband will be delighted to see you.  How did you get up here on such a day?  Oh, the terrible heat!”

In a minute or two the door opened to admit Mr. Coppinger, and the visitor, his eyes now accustomed to the gloom, saw a ruddy, vigorous, middle-aged man, dressed in flannels, and wearing the white shoes called espadrilles.