't keep it!"

He stooped and kissed the fingers he held, once, twice, repeatedly; then
turned away, shading his eyes with his hand.

Lydia said, with a little moan:

"Oh, Harry!--we've broken the spell."

Tatham recovered himself with difficulty.

"Can't you--can't you ever care for me?" The voice
was low, the eyes still hidden.

"We oughtn't to have been writing and meeting!" cried Lydia, in despair.
"It was foolish, wrong! I see it now. I ask your pardon. We must say
good-bye, Harry--and--oh!--oh!--I'm so sorry I let you--"

Her voice died away.

In the distance of the lane, a labourer emerged whistling from a gate,
with his dog. Tatham's hands dropped to his sides; they walked on
together as before. The man passed them with a cheerful good-night.

Tatham spoke slowly.

"Yes--perhaps--we'd better not meet. I can't--control myself. And I
should go on offending you."

A chasm seemed to have opened between them. They turned and walked back
to the gate of the cottage. When they reached it, Tatham crushed her hand
again in his.

"Good-bye! If ever I can do anything to serve you--let me know!
Good-bye!--dearest--_dearest_ Lydia." His voice sank and lingered on
the name. The lamp at the gate showed him that her eyes were swimming
in tears.

"You'll forgive me?" she said, imploringly.

He attempted a laugh, which ended in a sound of pain. Then he lifted her
hand again, kissed it, and was gone; running--head down--through the
dimness of the lane.

Meanwhile, wrapped in the warm furs of the motor, Felicia and Lady Tatham
sped toward Duddon.

Felicia was impenetrably silent at first; and Victoria, who never
found it easy to adapt herself to the young, made no effort to rouse
her. Occasionally some passing light showed her the girl's pallid
profile--slightly frowning brow, and pinched lips--against the dark
lining of the car. And once or twice as she saw her thus, she was
startled by the likeness to Melrose.

When they were halfway home, a thin, high voice struck into the silence,
deliberately clear:

"Who is the Signorina Penfold?"

"Her mother is a widow. They have lived here about two years."

"She is not pretty. She is too pale. I do not like that hair," said
Felicia, viciously.

Victoria could not help an unseen smile.

"Everybody here thinks her pretty. She is very clever, and a beautiful
artist," she said, with slight severity.

The gesture beside her was scarcely discernible. But Victoria t