ne in her room,
though weeping a little now and then, was thinking not of herself at
all, not even of Lindfield, but of Jeannie. Daisy was generous and
warm-hearted to the core, and passionate had been her self-reproach at
her complete misunderstanding of her aunt, at her utter failure even to
ask herself whether there was not something about it all that she did
not understand.

How nobly different Victor Braithwaite had been, who, so it seemed, had
assumed there must be some undercurrent of which he knew nothing, and
was quite content to leave it at that. Jeannie had said she loved him;
he wanted nothing more. But Daisy knew also that Jeannie loved her; what
she did not know then, but was beginning to know now, was what love
meant; how it can bear even to be completely misunderstood by those it
loves, if only, in spite of their ignorance and misjudgment, it can help
them. To Daisy, hitherto, love had been something assertive; to-day she
was learning that it is based on a self-surrender made with the same
passionateness as are its conquests.

The rest of the party were coming up next day, and it did not surprise
Jeannie to find a telegram waiting for her when she came in from Tom
Lindfield. He asked if he might call and see her next morning, saying
that he would come at twelve unless she put him off.

It needed but a moment's reflection to make her decide that in bare
justice she could not refuse. She shrank from it; she dreaded the
thought of seeing him again, of listening to his just and passionate
reproaches; she dreaded also the possibility that she might once again
have to give up Diana's secret. But, since he wished it, she must see
him.

Next morning she told Daisy she expected him, so that there should be no
possibility of their meeting by chance on the stairs or in Jeannie's
room, and sat waiting for him alone. She could not prepare herself in
any way for the interview, since she could not tell in the least what
form it would take. She tried not to be afraid, but--but she had treated
him abominably. So, at least, he must think, and with perfect justice.

He was announced, and came in. As with Daisy yesterday, they did not
greet one another. She was sitting at her writing-table, but did not
rise, and for a moment he stood opposite her, just looking at her with
those blue, boyish eyes which she knew could be so merry, but did not
know could be so dumbly, hopelessly sad.

Then he spoke, quite quietly.

"Y