* * * * *
Next morning after breakfast, Helbeck and Mr. Williams disappeared. A light scaffolding had been placed in the chapel. Work was to begin.
Laura put on her hat, took a basket, and went into the garden to gather fresh flowers for the house. Along the edges of the bowling-green stood rows of sunflowers, a golden show against the deep bronze of the thick beech hedges that enclosed the ground. Laura was trying, without much success, to reach some of the top blossoms of a tall plant when Helbeck came upon her.
"Be as independent as you please," he said laughing, "but you will never be able to gather sunflowers without me!"
In a moment her basket was filled. He looked down upon her.
"You should live here—in the bowling-green. It frames you—your white hat—your grey dress. Laura!"—his voice leapt—"do I do enough to make you happy?"
She flushed—turned her little face, and smiled at him—but rather sadly, rather pensively. Then she examined him in her turn. He looked jaded and tired. From want of sleep?—or merely from the daily fatigue of that long walk, foodless, to Whinthorpe for early Mass? That morning, as usual, by seven o'clock she had seen him crossing the park. A cheerless rain was falling from a grey sky. But she had never yet known him stopped by weather.
There was a quick association of ideas—and she said abruptly:
"Why did Mr. Williams say all that to you last night, do you suppose?"
Helbeck's countenance changed. He sauntered on beside her, his hands in his pockets, frowning. But he did not reply, and she became impatient.