g her gently till gradually her agitation subsided.

"Do forgive me!" Dinah murmured at last, clinging round her neck.

To which Isabel made answer in that low voice of hers that so throbbed
with tenderness whenever she spoke to her. "Dear child, there is nothing
to forgive. You are tired and worn out. I know just how you feel. But
never mind--never mind! Forget it all!"

"I know I am a burden," whispered Dinah, clinging closer.

Isabel's lips pressed her forehead. "My darling," she said, "you are such
a burden as I could not bear to be without."

That satisfied Dinah for the time; but it was not the whole of her
trouble, and presently, still clasped close to Isabel's heart, she gave
hesitating utterance to the rest.

"It would have been--so lovely--to have gone to the Hunt Ball. I should
like to dance with--with Sir Eustace again. Is he--is he really going to
stay with the de Vignes?"

"I don't know, dear. Very possibly not." Isabel's voice held a hint of
constraint though her arms pressed Dinah comfortingly close. "He will
please himself when the time comes no doubt."

Dinah did not pursue the subject, but her mind was no longer at rest. She
wondered how she could have forgotten Sir Eustace for so long, and now
that she remembered him she was all on fire with the longing to see him
again. Rose had spoken so possessively, so confidently, of him, as
though--almost as though--he had become her own peculiar property during
the long dark days in which Dinah had been wandering in another world.

Something in Dinah hotly and fiercely resented this attitude. She yearned
to know if it were by any means justified. She could not, would not,
believe that he had suffered himself to fall like other men a victim to
Rose's wiles. He was so different from all others, so superbly far above
all those other captives. And had she not heard him laugh and call Rose
machine-made?

A great restlessness began to possess her. She felt she must know what
had been happening during her absence from the field. She must know if
Rose had succeeded in adding yet another to her long list of devoted
admirers. She felt that if this were so, she could never, never forgive
her. But it was not possible. She was sure--she was sure it was not
possible.

Sir Eustace was not the man to grovel at any woman's feet. She recalled
the arrogance of his demeanour even in his moments of greatest
tenderness. She recalled the magnetic force of his personality