"Faithfully yours,

"WILLIAM PRESTON,

"Secretary Manchester Labour Party."


Maraton replaced the letters in their envelopes and turned with them in
his hand, towards Julia. She had moved a little towards the open French
windows. Every one seemed to have made their way out on to the lawn.
Chinese lanterns were hanging from some of the trees and along the
straight box hedge that led to the rose gardens. The women were
strolling about in their evening gowns, without wraps or covering, and
the men had joined them. Servants were passing coffee around, served
from a table on which stood a little row of bottles, filled with various
liqueurs. Some one in the drawing-room was singing, but the voice was
suddenly silenced. Every one turned their heads. A little further back
in the woods, a nightingale had commenced to sing.

"You are tired," Maraton whispered.

She shook her head. The strained, anxious look was still in her face.

"No," she replied in a low tone, "I am not tired."

"There is something the matter," he insisted, "something, I am sure.
Won't you sit down, and may I not order some refreshment for you? The
people here are very hospitable."