confronting a total stranger. But she was careful to hide her
scrutiny, and though her mind speculated widely she continued to
chatter, supplementing the home news her scanty letters had
afforded and retailing art gossip of the moment. One question only
she allowed herself. There had come a silence. She broke it
abruptly, leaning forward in her chair, watching him keen-eyed.

"Have you been ill--out there?"--her hand fluttered vaguely in an
easterly direction. Craven looked up in surprise.

"No," he said shortly, "I never am ill."

Miss Craven's nod as she rose from the table might have
been taken for assent. It was in reality satisfaction at her own
perspicacity. She had not supposed for one moment that he had been
ill but in no other way could she express what she wanted to know.
It was in itself an innocuous and natural remark, but the sudden
gloom that fell on him warned her that her ingenuity was, perhaps,
not so great as she imagined.

"Triple idiot!" she reflected wrathfully, as she poured out
coffee, "you had better have held your tongue," and she set
herself to charm away the shadow from his face and dispel any
suspicion he might have formed of her desire to probe into his
affairs. She had an uncommon personality and could talk cleverly
and well when she chose. And today she did choose, exerting all
her wit to combat the taciturn fit that emphasized so forcibly the
change in him. But though he listened with apparent attention his
mind was very obviously elsewhere, and he sat staring into the
fire, mechanically flicking ash from his cigarette. Conversation