house, but she was there alone. On finding this the case I stopped
short, rather awkwardly--I might have been, from the way I suddenly
felt, an unmasked hypocrite, a proved conspirator against her security
and honour. But there was no embarrassment in lovely Linda; she looked
up with a cry of pleasure from the book she was reading and held out her
hand with engaging frankness. I felt again as if I had no right to that
favour, which I pretended not to have noticed. This gave no chill,
however, to her pretty manner; she moved a roll of tapestry off the
bench so that I might sit down; she praised the place as a delightful
shady corner. She had never been fresher, fairer, kinder; she made her
mother's awful talk about her a hideous dream. She told me her mother
was coming to join her; she had remained indoors to write a letter. One
couldn't write out there, though it was so nice in other respects: the
table refused to stand firm. They too then had pretexts of letters
between them--I judged this a token that the situation was tense. It
was the only one nevertheless that Linda gave: like Archie she was young
enough to carry it off. She had been used to seeing us always together,
yet she made no comment on my having come over without him. I waited in
vain for her to speak of this--it would only be natural; her omission
couldn't but have a sense. At last I remarked that my nephew was very
unsociable that morning; I had expected him to join me, but he hadn't
seemed to see the attraction.

"I'm very glad. You can tell him that if you like," said Linda Pallant.

I wondered at her. "If I tell him he'll come at once."

"Then don't tell him; I don't want him to come. He stayed too long last
night," she went on, "and kept me out on the water till I don't know
what o'clock. That sort of thing isn't done here, you know, and every