Eva had been his betrothed for over two years, and had written to him only three weeks previously, mentioning her probable return to England in the autumn. He had already been house-hunting within an easy reach of town, and was making preparations for his marriage. And he had been very deeply in love with the pretty girl who had dealt him such a bitter blow.
Manlike, he had taken it silently, and was now making an effort to bear it philosophically; but the wound was too recent to be healed in such a way.
"Teach me to forget," he murmured. "Only time does that, and time is a laggard when one wants him to hurry."
And then he began to wonder who the girl was that was so close to him, and whether she was one of his cousin's guests.
After a time she moved away, and he caught glimpses of her white gown through the shrubbery path as she wended her way back to the house.
He lay on in the boat. He was tired of the strenuous life he had lived in town, and the afternoon was one that invited sleep.
An hour later he woke up with a start. Lady Fielding's merry laugh as she discovered his whereabouts, and the chaff of two of her young sisters, made him leap up in a moment, and for the time forget his trouble. When dinner-time came, he wondered if he would see the owner of that passionate voice. He asked his cousin if any of her guests had been left at home that afternoon.
"Yes," she answered promptly, "Sidney Urquhart. She left by the five o'clock train. Have you never met her? She's a dear girl, the life of any house-party; but she was summoned home unexpectedly. Her uncle was ill. She would have gone with us otherwise. Did you see anything of her?"
"No. I went straight down to the boat when I was told you were out."
Lady Fielding was alone with him in the drawing-room as they talked; the other guests were still in their rooms. Her face grew grave as she said almost in a whisper: