"I protest I am foolish," answered Blake, a shade discomfited. "But
I want not for excuse. I have it in the matter that brings me here."
So solemn was his air, so sober his voice, that both girls felt a
premonition of the untoward message that he bore. It was Ruth who
asked him to explain himself.

"Will you walk, ladies?" said Blake, and waved the hand that still
held his hat riverwards, adown the sloping lawn. They moved away
together, Sir Rowland pacing between his love of yesterday and his
love of to-day, pressed with questions from both. He shaded his eyes
to look at the river, dazzling in the morning sunlight that came over
Polden Hill, and, standing thus, he unburdened himself at last.

"My news concerns Richard and - Mr. Wilding." They looked at him. Miss
Westmacott's fine level brows were knit. He paused to ask, as if
suddenly observing his absence, "Is Richard not yet risen?"

"Not yet," said Ruth, and waited for him to proceed.

"It does credit to his courage that he should sleep late on such a
day," said Blake, and was pleased with the adroitness wherewith he
broke the news. "He quarrelled last night with Anthony Wilding."

Ruth's hand went to her bosom; fear stared at Blake from out her eyes,
blue as the heavens overhead; a grey shade overcast the usual warm
pallor of her face.

"With Mr. Wilding?" she cried. "That man!" And though she said no more
her eyes implored him to go on, and tell her what more there might be.