Valentia, do
forgive me."

"I'll try.... here he is."

He was seen coming towards them again. Her anger flickered out at once.

"I suppose he thinks we've been here long enough," she said, smiling as
women do at such symptoms.

"Of course he does. Vanity--just vanity." Vaughan strolled away.

"Look here! What were you two talking about?"

"Nothing. About you, Harry."

"Rubbish. What was he talking about?"

"You, only you."

"I can't see that that chap's so brilliant! It seems to me he's just
like anybody else. And his work shows it too, really. No soul, no real
heart in it. All from the outside."

"Nonsense, Harry, nobody is more kind-hearted, more----"

"Look here, Val, I won't have it. Do you hear?"

"Have what, Harry?"

He lowered his voice. "I won't have it. You must go back. It isn't that
_I_ mind. But Romer will soon think it extraordinary, your sitting out
alone so long."

"No, he won't."

"All right then, he won't. He must be an ass," said Harry angrily. "I
don't know what he's thinking of. Hasn't he got eyes?"

"Yes, of course he has."

"And eyelids too," said Harry. "I dare say he pretends not to see that
Vaughan admires you. Too indolent to bother about it."

"Really. Harry--you go too far. Are you thinking of pointing it out?"

She got up.

"One second," said Harry pleadingly. "It's cruel of you to go now."

"I thought you said we'd better get back?"

"Your hands look so lovely by this light," he spoke in his softest
voice.

"We really must go."

"Then at half-past three. I'll bring my sketchbook. Do you know where
the key is? Perhaps you've lost it. You are so dreadfully careless." He
now spoke in the tone of a reproving husband.

"I've got it. Do you think we'd better? I'm rather tired. Shall you be
able to wake?"

Harry turned away.

"All right, it doesn't matter, Val. I shall be going soon, and then----"

She followed him quickly.

"No, no, Harry. Of course."

He gave her a grateful look. They joined the group on the little
verandah in front of the house. Van Buren was sitting in the corner and
seemed in the depths of depression. From the windows could be heard once
more strains of music. Daphne was playing an accompaniment. Muir had
again begun the song, and got a little further into it--"_It is not
because thy heart is mine, mine only, mine alone._" But Vaughan came up
promptly and stopped it.

CHAPTER XXVII

SEEING THE SUN RISE

What a delicate ai