eated, it is because I feel this in a
way you don't realize. I apologize for using the word comic just now, I
should have said tragic. I'll enlighten Uncle Dennis, if that will
comfort you; but this is not exactly a matter for anyone, except myself."
And, without another look or word, he went out.

As the door closed, Barbara ran towards it; and, with a motion strangely
like the wringing of hands, said:

"Oh, dear! Oh! dear!" Then, turning away to a bookcase, she began to
cry.

This ebullition of feeling, surpassing even their own, came as a real
shock to Lady and Lord Valleys, ignorant of how strung-up she had been
before she entered the room. They had not seen Barbara cry since she was
a tiny girl. And in face of her emotion any animus they might have shown
her for having thrown Miltoun into Mrs. Noel's arms, now melted away.
Lord Valleys, especially moved, went up to his daughter, and stood with
her in that dark corner, saying nothing, but gently stroking her hand.
Lady Valleys, who herself felt very much inclined to cry, went out of
sight into the embrasure of the window.

Barbara's sobbing was soon subdued.

"It's his face," she said: "And why? Why? It's so unnecessary!"

Lord Valleys, continually twisting his moustache, muttered:

"Exactly! He makes things for himself!"

"Yes," murmured Lady Valleys from the window, "he was always
uncomfortable, like that. I remember him as a baby. Bertie never was."

And then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of
Barbara blowing her nose.

"I shall go and see mother," said Lady Valleys, suddenly: "The boy's
whole life may be ruined if we can't stop this. Are you coming, child?"

But Barbara refused.

She went to her room, instead. This crisis in Miltoun's life had
strangely shaken her. It was as if Fate had suddenly revealed all that
any step out of the beaten path might lead to, had brought her sharply up
against herself. To wing out into the blue! See what it meant! If
Miltoun kept to his resolve, and gave up public life, he was lost! And
she herself! The fascination of Courtier's chivalrous manner, of a sort
of innate gallantry, suggesting the quest of everlasting danger--was it
not rather absurd? And--was she fascinated? Was it not simply that she
liked the feeling of fascinating him? Through the maze of these
thoughts, darted the memory of Harbinger's face close to her own, his
clenched hands, the swift revelation of hi