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last!" Wrayson said to himself, almost under his breath. "Shall we have a hansom, Louise, or do you care for a walk?"

"A walk, by all means," she answered hurriedly. "It is not far, is it?"

"A mile—a little more perhaps," he answered. "You are sure that you are not tired?"

"Tired only of sitting still," she answered. "We had a delightful crossing. This way, isn't it?"

They left the Grosvenor Hotel, where Louise, with Madame de Melbain, had arrived about an hour ago, and turned towards Battersea. Louise began to talk, nervously, and with a very obvious desire to keep the conversation to indifferent subjects. Wrayson humoured her for some time. They spoke of the journey, suddenly determined upon by Madame de Melbain on receipt of his telegram, of the beauty of St. Étarpe, of the wonderful reappearance of her brother.

"I can scarcely realize even now," she said, "that he is really alive. He is so altered. He seems a different person altogether."

"He has gone through a good deal," Wrayson remarked.

She sighed.

"Poor Duncan!" she murmured.

"He is very much to be pitied," Wrayson said seriously. "I, at any rate, can feel for him."