for her Crayven's situation. She also bought an evening paper, but there was nothing in that except scarehead prophecies of the despatch of an English fleet to Constantinople. She threw the paper away and went slowly home along the quiet country road. A fresh wind was blowing from the sea. The September heats were coming to an end. The first hint of autumn was in the air.
So far, since she had read Crayven's letter, she had been thinking only of him. It was not at all like him, she thought, to alarm her for nothing. He must have believed himself in danger, and, as he was not a timorous nor an hysterical person, the danger must be real. She was touched that he should have thought of her and have wished to send her that message, which might be the last. After all, it had been a genuine feeling that he had had for her; she had been sure of it ever since that last day in the Swiss forest. And she felt affection for him, and a longing to know that he was safe.
She regretted nothing about the affair; not even the fact that his letter had made trouble for her with Basil. She did not regret her silence to Basil, nor that he now knew that she had concealed something from him. Of course he would be angry. He had believed always that she had no secrets from him; and in fact, till this, she had had none. It was Basil's doing, that she had kept this from him. If he had his secrets, she
