le being quiver. "It's your own fault, my Daphne. You
shouldn't run away."

"I--I can't help it," she said tremulously. "I sometimes think--I'm
not big enough for you."

"You'll grow," he said.

"I don't know," she answered in distress. "I may not. And if I do, I
feel--I feel as if I shan't be myself any longer, but just--but just--a
bit of you!"

He laughed. "Daphne,--you oddity! Don't you want to be a bit of me?"

"I'd rather be myself," she murmured shyly.

His hold was not so close, and she longed, but did not dare, to get off
his knee and breathe. But in that moment there came the sound of a
halting step in the drawing-room beyond, and swiftly she raised her head.

"Oh, Eustace, let me go! Here is Scott!"

He did not release her instantly. Scott was already in the doorway
before, like a frightened fawn, she leapt from his grasp. She heard
Eustace laugh again, and somehow his laugh had a note of insolence.

"Come in, my good brother!" he said. "My lady is just about to make tea.
I presume that is what you have come for."

"The presumption is correct," said Scott.

He came forward in his quiet, unhurried fashion, and paused at the table
to open the tea-caddy for Dinah.

She thanked him with trembling lips, her eyes cast down, her face on
fire.

Eustace lounged back on the settee and watched her. He frowned
momentarily when Scott sat down beside him, leaving her a low chair by
the tea-tray.

Dinah's hands fluttered among the cups. She was painfully ill at ease.
But in a second or two Scott's placid voice came into the silence, and at
once her distress began to subside.

"Have you decided about the decoration of this room yet?" he asked. "I
always thought this dead-white rather cold."

"Dinah is to have her own choice," said Sir Eustace.

"I would like shell-pink," said Dinah, without looking up. "Don't you
think that would be nice with those pretty water-colour sketches?"

She spoke diffidently. No one had ever deferred to her taste before.

Sir Eustace laughed in his slightly supercilious way. "Do you know who is
responsible for those pretty sketches, my red, red rose?"

She glanced up nervously. "Not--not--are they yours, Scott?"

"They are," said Scott, with a smile.

She met his eyes for an instant, and was surprised by their gravity. "Oh,
I do like them," she said. "I wonder I didn't guess. They are so
beautifully finished, so--complete."

"I am glad you like them," said Scott. "I tho