"Well, there is." She slackened her pace involuntarily, and
they came to a pause and stood facing each other under the
limes.

"Is Darrow coming?" he asked.

She seldom blushed, but at the question a sudden heat
suffused her. She held her head high.

"Yes: he's coming. I've just heard. He arrives to-morrow.
But that's not----" She saw her blunder and tried to rectify
it. "Or rather, yes, in a way it is my reason for wanting
to speak to you----"

"Because he's coming?"

"Because he's not yet here."

"It's about him, then?"

He looked at her kindly, half-humourously, an almost
fraternal wisdom in his smile.

"About----? No, no: I meant that I wanted to speak today
because it's our last day alone together."

"Oh, I see." He had slipped his hands into the pockets of
his tweed shooting jacket and lounged along at her side, his
eyes bent on the moist ruts of the drive, as though the