to be his wife.

Still holding her hand in that strong grasp, he drew her within the
porch. "I'm so grateful to you for having come," he said. "I hope you
didn't think what I did very odd?"

"I did think it just a little odd."

She was trying to smile--to be her usual composed self.

"I couldn't come to Wyndfell Hall," he said abruptly, "for a reason
which you will soon know. But I had to see you, and, by a bit of luck, I
suddenly remembered this splendid old church. I passed by here once on a
walking tour, years and years ago. It's the sort of place people come a
long way to see; so, if we are found here together--well, we might have
met by accident."

"As it is, we have met by appointment," she said quietly.

She was feeling more and more frightened. Mark now looked so set, so
grim.

"Would you rather stay out here," he asked, "or shall we go into the
church?"

"I'd rather stay out here. What is it, Mark? Don't keep me in suspense."

They were standing, facing one another; he had let go her hand at last.

"What I've come to tell you will give you, I fear, a great shock," he
began slowly, "for it concerns someone to whom I believe you to be
deeply attached."

He looked away from her for the first time.

"Then it _is_ Bubbles!" she cried, dismayed. "What on earth has the
child done?"

He turned and again looked into her face, now full of a deeply troubled,
questioning anxiety. "Bubbles Dunster?" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, no!
It's nothing to do with Bubbles."

A look of uncontrollable relief came over her eyes and mouth.

"Who is it, Mark? You credit me with a warmer heart than I possess--"

But he remained silent, and she said quickly: "Come! Who is it, Mark?"

"Can't you guess?" he asked harshly. And, as she shook her head, he
added, in a slow, reluctant tone: "I've always supposed you to be really
attached to Lionel Varick."

Lionel? That was the last name she expected to hear!

"I don't know exactly what you mean by 'attached,' Mark," she said
coldly. "But yes, I've always been fond of him--in a way I suppose you
might call it 'attached'--since that horrid affair, years ago, when you
were so kind both to him and to me."

"Don't couple yourself with him," he said sternly, "if, as I gather, you
don't really care for him, Blanche." And then, almost inaudibly, he
added: "You don't know the tortures of jealousy I've suffered at the
thought of you and that man."

"Tortures of jealousy?" she re