"I shall be walking up there to-morrow," she said audaciously, pointing to the fantastic cactus-sprinkled volcanic hills rising steeply behind the house on the northern side.
Mrs. Stoddart vouchsafed no reply. Annette, more tired than she would allow, leaned back. Her eyes fell on the same view, which might have been painted on a drop scene so fixed was it, so identical in colour and light day after day. But to-day it proved itself genuine by the fact that a large German steamer, not there yesterday, was moored in the bay, so placed that it seemed to be impaled on the spike of the tallest tower, and keeping up the illusion by making from time to time a rumbling and unseemly noise as if in pain.
"You must own now that I am well," said Annette.
"Very nearly. You shall come up to the tomato-gardens to-morrow, and see the Spanish women working in their white trousers."
"My head never aches now."
"That is a good thing."
"Has the time come when I may ask a few questions?"
Mrs. Stoddart hardly looked up from her knitting as she said tranquilly—
"Yes, my child, if there is anything on your mind."
"I suppose Dick Le Geyt is—dead. I felt sure he was dying that last day at Fontainebleau. It won't be any shock to me to know that he is dead."