Bertha took train early in the afternoon.  By an avenue of elms she passed into a large and beautiful garden, and so came to the imposing front door.  Led into the drawing-room, she had time to take breath, and to gaze at splendours such as she had never seen before; then with soundless footfall, entered a slim, prettily-dressed girl who ran towards her, and caught her hands, and kissed her with graceful tenderness.

“My dear, dear old Bertha!  What a happiness to see you again!  How good of you to come!  Isn’t it a lovely place?  And the nicest people.  You’ve heard me speak of Miss Anderton, of Bath.  She is Mrs. Capron —­married half a year ago.  And they’re just going to Egypt for a year, and—­what do you think?—­I’m going with them.”

Rosamund’s voice sunk and faltered.  She stood holding Bertha’s hands, and gazing into her face with eyes which grew large as if in a distressful appeal.

“To Egypt?”

“Yes.  It was decided whilst I was in Switzerland.  Mrs. Capron wants a friend to be with her; one who can help her in water-colours.  She thought, of course, that I couldn’t go; wrote to me just wishing it were possible.  And I caught at the chance!  Oh, caught at it!”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” said Bertha.

“I want to explain it all.  Come into this cosy corner.  Nobody will disturb us except when they bring tea.—­Do you know that picture of Leader’s?  Isn’t it exquisite!—­Are you tired, Bertha?  You look so, a little.  I’m afraid you walked from the station, and it’s such a hot day.  But oh, the loveliness of the trees about here!  Do you remember our first walk together?  You were shy, stiff; didn’t feel quite sure whether you liked me or not.  And I thought you—­just a little critical.  But before we got back again, I think we had begun to understand each other.  And I wonder whether you’ll understand me now.  It would be dreadful if I felt you disapproved of me.  Of course if you do, I’d much rather you said so.  You will—­won’t you?”

She again fixed her eyes upon Bertha with the wide, appealing look.

“Whether I say it or not,” replied the other, “you’ll see what I think.  I never could help that.”

“That’s what I love in you!  And that’s what I’ve been thinking of, all these weeks of misery—­your perfect sincerity.  I’ve asked myself whether it would be possible for you to find yourself in such a position as mine; and how you would act, how you would speak.  You’re my ideal of truth and rightness, Bertha; I’ve often enough told you that.”

Bertha moved uncomfortably, her eyes averted.

“Suppose you just tell me what has happened,” she added quietly.

“Yes, I will.  I hope you haven’t been thinking it was some fault of his?”

“I couldn’t help thinking that.”

“Oh!  Put that out of your mind at once.  The fault is altogether mine.  He has done nothing whatever—­he is good and true, and all that a man should be.  It’s I who am behaving badly; so badly that I feel hot with shame now that I come to tell you.  I have broken it off.  I’ve said I couldn’t marry him.”