candidly under the wide sky, but, from a field out of sight, a sheep
bleated disconsolately, with a sound of infinite, uncomprehending woe,
and a steamer in the river sent out a distant hoot of answering
derision.

The gipsies had departed; the ashes of their fire made a black patch
on the ground and a few rags fluttered in the wind. There was no human
being in sight and she rode down the slope to wait in the hollow. She
was beginning to wonder if Francis had received her letter when, with
a dreary sense of watching a familiar scene reacted, she saw him in
the lane with Henrietta by his side. Here was an unexpected
difficulty, and she could do nothing but ride towards them, raising
her whip in greeting.

She said at once to Francis, 'Did you get my letter?' She saw
Henrietta's face flush angrily, but she knew that the time had come
for her to speak. 'I asked you to meet me here.'

He was staring at her and his mouth moved mechanically. 'No, I didn't
get it by the first post. Perhaps it's there now.' With his eyes still
fixed on her, he moved back a step.

'No.' Rose smiled. 'Don't go and get it. Fortunately you are here. I
want to talk to you, Henrietta, please--' Her voice was gentle, she
leaned forward in the saddle with a charming gesture of request, but
Henrietta shook her head. She was antagonized by that charm which was
holding Francis's eyes. A loosened curl had fallen over her forehead,
giving to the severity of her dress, copied from that portrait of her
father, a dishevelling touch, as though a young lady were suddenly
discovered to be a gipsy in an evil frame of mind.