nd the
dawning of an angry light in the gentle eyes, he felt an almost
irresistible desire to take her in his arms just as he had done at their
last meeting and kiss into silence the tempting lips which had just
shaped those almost scornfully spoken words.

It dawned upon her in the same moment that he was looking as she had
never seen him look before. His face was perfectly bloodless. The
features were hard-set and deep-lined. There were furrows in his
forehead and shadows under his eyes. When she had last seen his face it
was that of a boy of twenty, full of health and strength, and without a
care on his mind. Now it was the face of a man of thirty, a man who had
lived and sinned and sorrowed.

In that instant her mood and her voice changed, and she said:

"Vane, dear, what is it? Why don't you speak to me? Are you ill?"

He took her bicycle from her, and, turning, walked with her back into
the park. After a few moments' silence he replied in a voice which
seemed horribly strange to her:

"Yes, Enid, I am. I am ill, and I am afraid there is no cure for the
disease. I have not been home. In fact, I have been in the park all
night. I was shut in by accident, and I remained from choice, trying to
think out my duty to you."

"Oh, nonsense!" she replied. "I know what you mean. It's about you
getting drunk the other night--and--and your unfortunate mother and this
newly-found half-sister of yours. Well, of course, I suppose it was
exceedingly wrong of you to get so very drunk. And the rest--I mean
about your mother--that is very sad and terrible. But, bad as it is, I
think you are taking it a great deal too seriously. I've talked it all
over with mamma, and she thinks just as I do about it."

When she had said this Enid felt that she had gone quite as far as her
self-respect and maidenly pride would permit her to go. As she looked up
at him she saw the pallor of his face change almost to grey. His hand
was resting lightly on her arm, and she felt it tremble. Then he drew it
gently away and said:

"I know what you mean, Enid, and it is altogether too good and generous
of you; but I don't think you quite understand--I mean, you don't seem
to realise how serious it all is."

"Really, Vane, I must say that you are acting very strangely. What is
the good of going all over it again? You can't tell me anything more, I
suppose, than I have heard already from mamma. Surely you don't mean
that you intend that everything is