are death on driving her."

"Cecil," said Bertie, suddenly, "I think you have grown much quieter."

"I am sure I might make the same remark, and for the purposes of
conversation it requires two to talk."

"You are so stiff, or something," murmured he; "not like the jolly little
girl who used to ride with me in the Farwoods. Those were pleasant days,
Cecil--at least, I thought so."

"You got very suddenly tired of them, however."

"That I didn't," exclaimed he. "I was obliged to go."

"It was a yachting excursion, wasn't it?" carelessly.

"Yes, ostensibly; I had business too. Do you know Cecil very nearly wrote
to you. But then, I thought you wouldn't care to hear from me, and might
think it a bore answering."

Cecil was silent. "Did you miss me, my child?"

She forgot her resolves, and met his eyes with a dark, soft look.

Bertie pressed her hand under the table, and for a moment they were
oblivious of anything passing around.

"Sweet or dry, sir?" said the deep voice of the liveried [unreadable],
for the second time of asking.