ld never come! She used to like him before, so it must be
all your fault, and I call it a beastly shame, and I don't care what
you say!'

All of this was quite new to Mark; Mabel had studiously avoided all
allusion to Vincent, and it had never occurred to Mark to speculate on
the light in which she chose to regard his explanation--that was all
over, and he was little enough inclined to revive the subject. He
began to be strangely troubled now. 'I don't know what you're talking
about,' he said; 'is Holroyd ill? it--it is nothing serious, is it?'
For he had seen very little of him lately, his obligation being too
deep and too humiliating to make repeated visits at all desirable.

'He looks all right,' said Colin, 'but I heard mother say that he's
very ill really, and she should have to put a stop to Dolly going to
sit with him every day as she does, because--because he might die
quite suddenly at any time--it's something wrong with his heart, she
said, I believe. And yet he seems well enough. But oh, Mark, if--if
it's that, you ought to let Mabel make it up with him, whatever he's
done. You might let her go and see him--he would like it so, I know he
would, though he wouldn't own it when I asked him. Only suppose he
_died_! I know Mabel would be sorry then!'

Every word the boy said cut Mark to the heart--he had never suggested
to Mabel that she should avoid Vincent, and he could not be satisfied
now until he had found out why she had done so; his insight not being
nearly keen enough to discover the reason for himself.

'Give me his address,' he said, for he did not even know where
Holroyd was living, and as soon as the boy had gone Mark drove to the
place he had mentioned, a house in Cambridge Terrace, instead of
returning home at once as he had previously intended.

He did not believe that the illness was as serious as Colin had
implied; of course that was exaggerated--but he could not be quite
easy until he had reassured himself by a visit, and some lingering
feeling of self-reproach drove him to make this atonement for his long
neglect.

The Langtons' carriage was at the door when he arrived; and, as he
came into the sitting-room on the second floor, he heard Dolly's clear
little voice and paused, hidden by the screen at the door. She was
reading to Vincent, who was lying back in an arm-chair; it was Hans
Andersen's 'Story of the Shadow,' a choice to which she had been
guided by pure accident.

Mark heard her