at them, "they are by no means bad; they will be as
good as ever in five minutes."

Inexpressibly consoled, she lets him take off her skates, and commences
a gentle promenade with him up and down the brown and stunted grass that
lies upon the path.

"There was a time," says Roger, after a pause, "when I might have dared
to kiss away your tears, but I suppose that time is gone forever."

"I suppose so," dismally; tears are still wetting the sweet eyes she
turns up to his.

"Dulce! let me understand you," says Roger, gravely. "You are quite sure
you don't care for him?"

"Quite," says Dulce, without a second's hesitation.

"Then ask him to give you up--to release you from your promise," says
Roger, brightly.

"I--I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, drooping her head.

"Nonsense!" says Roger (of course it is not _he_ who has to do it). "Why
should you feel nervous about a thing like that? You don't want to marry
him, therefore say so. Nothing can be simpler."

"It doesn't sound simple to me," says Dulce, dolefully.

Just at this moment a young man, dressed in gray, emerges from the group
of alders that line the south edge of the lake, very near to where Dulce
and Roger are standing. He is so situated that he is still concealed
from view, though quite near enough to the cousins to hear what they are
saying. The last two sentences having fallen on his ears, he stands as
if spell-bound, and waits eagerly for what may come next.

"He can't possibly want to marry you if you don't want to marry him,"
says Roger, logically, "and you _don't_?" a little doubtfully still.

"I don't, indeed," says Dulce, with a sad sigh and a shake of her auburn
head.

At this the young man in the gray suit, with a bitter curse, turns away,
and, retracing his steps, gets to the other side of the lake without
being seen by either Dulce or his companion.

Here he declines to stay or converse with anyone. Passing by Portia and
the two men who are still attending to her, he bows slightly, and
pretends not to hear Dicky's voice as it calls to him to stop.

"He is like that contemptible idiot who went round with the 'banner with
the strange device,'" says Dicky Browne, looking after him; "nothing
will stop him."

"What's up with him now?" asks Sir Mark, squeezing his glass into his
eye, the better to watch Stephen's figure, as it hurriedly disappears.

"I expect he has eaten something that has disagreed with him," says
Dicky, cheerfu